"A" is for Abuelitos left back in Mexico who are
Heartbreaking knowing the moment,
they see their children leave home
to cross a dessert they might ever cross.
Heartbreaking knowing once they do arrive al Norte
decades might pass without seeing eachother.
Heartbreaking knowing that they might not get to know
their nietos because their salud esta muy delicada
Heartbreaking knowing that their would be a chance
of someone dying in either side
and wont be able to say the last goodbye.

"A" is for Abuelitos left back in Mexico who
I have never got the chance to meet.
Abuelitos who I loved since the day
I saw pictures junto a mis padres
Abuelitos who I share sangre y caracter and face feautures.
Habra un dia donde nos reuniemos como la familia que somos.
Pero hoy escribo un poema en sus memoria.
Tambien para los abuelitos que me siguen esperando,
Los quiero mucho y sean fuertes

In memory of Memorio Covarrubias y Cecilia Martinez.

You know you've been away for long when returning feels wrong
when the rough road you left's a beautiful tarmac
and the roadside lantana Kamara's someone's bed of lilacs
you know it's been ages when you feel nostalgia turning pages
when each bend you negotiate brings tears to your eyes
for the skyline's too storied to have a view of the ranges
so that in disappointment you take deep breaths and sighs
you know an eternity has gone by since you set foot there
when the hugs are a doubt for you wonder if folks still care
when the cute little puppy you left is a scabby old *****
and all you can see are graves at the stead to the alleged old witch
you realise time's past when every view matters
so much so that you open your teary eyes without a twitch
when the grass thatched homesteads are tatters
next to mansions trapped betwixt the so called rich
you tell the beautiful generation's gone when you ain't on foot
when soon as you set foot of what was such a lively place
tears of despondence cascade down your alien face
when you don't know where those who survived relocated
but can at least see tombstones in the distance suffocated
by growing bushes, you try to get close but every plant scratches
and you want a closer look much as every **** itches
you know it's been eons when many gather like a scene of crime
for they don't understand you're mourning for lost time
for those who visited the great beyond in your absence
young and the old attempting to speak English, renaissance
you know it's been a while for unlike the days of the old
only the youth show earnest concern, for they're the bold
they who'll try to explain for the elderly the stranger you're
for them old to realise you're one of their own back from a far
you know you've been away for so long when what was a domicile
is just a piece that couldn't be valued due to many a grave
the revelations hurt yet are given in bits for none's that brave
none's brave enough to relay your family's demise in chronology
and luckily someone has a number you can call thanks to technology,
your youngest sister, left a crying baby now married
realising it's you her feelings are an oxymoron
for she obviously sounds nonchalantly worried
and out of words cause you left her nothing but your stolen crayon
you know you've been away for so long when the moment
you so much prayed for turns into a biting torment
for soon as you walk out your car you become a shoulder to cry on
implying that so much has happened while you were away
yet you're too weakened by changes to keep at bay
where are the rest? you can't help but wonder
how a single decade could mean so much plunder
you know you've been away for so long when you have a novel of sorrow
one which reading could consume more than a tomorrow
when you realise you went to the wrong place or right
for you realise you're on your own childhood bed in the night
the then soft spots feeling so hard while you twist and turn
reminding you of the life you've endured whence you couldn't run
you know you've been  away for a while when you can hardly sleep
but you have room to contemplate the gone decade
laugh, wonder, remember but mostly weep
when you wish you had listened when they said
Arabian money wasn't the picture they painted
you know you've been absent when you wish you could rewind
to erase all those grotesque things they made you do
when you want to move the world back to the unwounded you
the one who wasn't sexually abused and ******* tainted
to save you the excruciating and ugly details
you only realise when deafening's the sound of hails
when you loathe rather than treasure the rain
because all it does is remind you of your pain
when you can't stop for yourself feeling sorry
wishing to speak out to the rest yet too ashamed to tell your story

A daughter gives birth to a daughter,
Unknown and untouched, a stranger among strangers.

Her eyes are as big as the smile on her mama’s face,

Her being fills the tired and aching crevices of her mother’s body
As she soothes the pressure her mother has had to carry for a while now.

She looks at her daughter, really takes a look at her.

Her pale golden brown skin reminds her of the chai she used to make at home, the pungent aroma filling the entirety of the tiny bungalow cluttered with metallic pots and pans,
She still didn’t find uses for all of them.

Over here, there are strange phrases on these tea boxes, marked up with words like “real” and “authentic!” And it tastes stranger everything tastes so…bland.

She’s trying to fit into this movie poster with America as the Director and immigrants as actors, and the neon yellow flashing bulbs ceremoniously decorated around the word “diverse” because nothing feels right, even the clothes merely trying to cling onto her bare skin, as if they don’t know how to fit her.

Tiny movements and a tiny heartbeat,
And she knows why she came here.

Knowing that her daughter will never have to feel those salty tears produced by the paranoia of the unknown, making everything seem so bitter.

Knowing that tonight, and every other night, her daughter will be tucked under a blanket of opportunity,
And laying on a bed of dreams.

She stares out of the window, the warm summer breeze making her cozy and she soon blends in with the darkness of the night, hoping that everyday her daughter would be able to sleep as easily as she did tonight.

I live in strange cities and talk with strangers
About things dear to me
I walk on alien paths and eat foreign food
And remember
I paint **** women, their hips large
Dark hair and full *******
And I know
We all seek perfection, not knowing
We are already perfect
I sing, my notes rise and fall endlessly
Like a swallow in the endless skies
And I praise
Hosanna in the highest
And as the dust motes dance in the wintry sun
In my wooden church, I am transported
To singing with Irish nuns
My skin browner, in a country of heat and dust
A country of mangoes and temples
Of saffron and silks
And as I don my jeans
Memories of my mother’s swishing silks
Take me home
But I live in strange cities and talk with strangers
And home is just another four letter word

Am I not your poor your weak?
Your wretched refuge from a teeming shore?
Do you not still hold the lamp?
Before me at the golden door?

Who is able to decide..
Who is the free and the brave?
The ones who sit back and enjoy?
The wealth gained day by day?

The ones who never had to prove
Or be alone against the struggle
The ones who never faced the storm
Never even touched a shovel?

Is this not the land I'm told..
That is free and for the masses?
And position is not imposed
Or subjected just as assets

As an American I have to ask
What was the point of all this war?
When we are simply going back..
To all that we were before?

The belief that one was equal to all
The terrible government crippled us all
And beneath the rubble did they not crawl?
To fight back against this demonic brawl?

In the end all I have to say
Is we did not give millions of lives away..
To keep waging war or giving labels..
Just give me one reason how you are able?...

To decide who deserves to be free..
Who decides where serenity is allowed?
To say that to be an immigrant..
Has simply overflowed the crowd?

Is America not for the free?
For the ones who fight every day?
The ones that lay awake and pray
For poverty to go to grave?

Is this the land not for the brave?
Not for the ones who battled their way?
The ones who fought every night and day?
Does the lamp still not guide their way?

He supposed he should be grateful
For all that he needed was apparent
Air for life
Roads for travel
Water for drink
And dirt to remind him from where he came

He was not ashamed of his past
It was where all his dreams were born
He could ride a horse
Work with his hands
Love a woman
And live alone no matter by what name

He saw the people with sad faces
Even though they lived their dream
With new cars
Talking on phones
Beautiful homes
But they had already lost the game

They could never imagine love was enough
For a man who left his country for more
For his children
For his wife
For his mother
It is his will to be proud no matter how plain