Roy Conboy

Old Tia and Tio Tell America One

1: Tia

Old Tia sits down to tell,

Mexicana chica 

with American lifetime,

her young stories tracking

the train clack clack clacking

under her scared feet,

her vida on viaje

from Chihuahua to Juarez,

El Paso and Los Angeles.

Her memories scrambling

on steel wheels trembling

through canyons as deep

as that life’s new leap,

through cacti arms held high,

with wind whispering 

through thorn and spike:

“No te vayas, mija.

No don’t go”,

through deserts as parched

as her new idioma

twisting español into ingles.

Old Tia tracks back to tell,

her young dreams 

shaken and dazzled

at new ciudades

and careening avenidas 

that clambered and bustled

with suit, heel, and hustle,

with sign, shout, and rumble -

colorful and raucous 

cauldron of changes

that she no puede 

comprender.

No, she cannot comprehend

through dark girl ojos

con lagrimas bitter

the universal lingos 

of angry and sinister -

the voices shouting,

the extraños cursing,

cold spit of derision,

tight fists of threatening,

bloody eyes full of knives -

universal lenguas

of shit and spite

aimed at the little brown girl

armored only in lonely silence.

2: Tio

Old Tio sits down to tell -

once he ran barefoot

through dusty

desert streets,

sang Mexican canciones

con his Papá

in the cooling evenings,

hid from the Villas,

hid from the Federales,

too young to comprehend

the struggle that left 

the bloodied bodies

floating in the river

under feet and beaks

of the armies of crows.

Ay Old Tio tells

of the train ride,

and the border sneer,

and the crashing 

cacophony 

of white skins 

and white words,

and the fear filled

Mexicano chico

set down in 

the City of Angels,

brown manchild 

walking streets

and riding Red Car

to garment district,

skid row, Union Station,

City Hall downtown.

Mexican boy

hawking news

in español y inglés -

depression headlines

and looming wartimes,

on streets alive 

with nickel movies,

tattered suits,

soup kichen lines

and raucous blues,

while back at la casa

mama’s feeding hobos 

who jump off of trains

looking for trabajos.

Young muchacho 

sweating out man’s day

is battered by crash

of brick and glass,

autos and gas,

endless parade 

at walk and run

of humans chasing 

with desperation 

dollar, hope, and need,

while in the storm

he dreams -

his papa’s stories

of wind and quiet,

stars and songs

in una tierra

far away.