these winter months,
the biting cold,
the piping hot tea,
and all the colors
in between,
to me,
are you.

long walks
in the drizzling rain,
when I’d wear your jacket
throughout the day,
and long phone calls
with nothing to say,
to me,
are you.

the days I bundled
against bitter freeze
and the softer ones
with a mild breeze
and the laughing ones
when we’d both tease,
to me,
are you.

and the nights we cried
were the pouring rain,
and the times we fought,
clouds hung overhead,
and the noons we laughed
were the sunny days,
and love was the blanket
that kept us alive,
and this,
to me,
is you.

They call me Ghetto.
They call me
gunfights and drive-bys,
pregnant teens.
They call me Poverty,
and concrete winter walls
splashed with blood-red
graffiti.
They call me
junior-high druggies
and gang-banging muchachos.
They call me Mexico
like it’s a ***** word.
They call me Ghetto.

But haven’t they seen through
the white-washed walls
of the
“American Dream”?
Don’t they know hurt
and suffering,
imperfections
and neglect,
as well?

So call me Mexico;
call me Poverty;
call me Ghetto.

I am
run-down yards
filled with laughing brown children,
small apartments
bursting with the scent
of tamales,
mingled with joy and the chatter of relatives.
I am home-made tortillas
at Thanksgiving
and wrinkled hands pounding masa
at Christmas.
I am friendly smiles
and shouted jokes
followed by roaring
laughter.
I am the lilting syllables
of a beautiful
culture.
I am comfort.

They call me Ghetto
and so I am.