(The Migrant) From Mexico City to Esta Villa de la Señora de Los Angeles 
de la Porciúncula

Listen to me (Escúchame)!  Quiero decirte (I want to tell you):
That I come from the city built on mud (la ciudad revuleta sobre el lodo),
That I bring you the sacred sediment of ages,
Cakes of human blood and unspeakable tenderness,
The wisdom of the rain when rain is thick with tears,
The hands of my people in a garland for our mother.
Madre de los Angeles (Our Mother of the moon)
Madre morena (Our Mother of Fair Stars),
Madre sincera (Our Mother who shivers singing earthquakes).
I am your brother (y tambien tu hermana, ya lo ves:
Cambio mi sexo cuando quiero), I am the broken border.

Oyeme otra vez (Hear me again) –
There is a thread fashioned with love and beads of sweat between
Your very expensive coastline and the priceless lava of my volcanoes –
We’re both a bomb, a chiropractic crack of a continent
Burst open: You know, a miracle of culture.
And (tú ya sabes) I still remember the names of all the gods –
There’s Car Key, Credit Card and Quetzalcóatl Creator;
There’s Magic Kingdom, Microchip and Mictlantéotl:
The Skeletal Collector.  There’s High Octane, Democracy Now
And the titillating dance of Xochiquetzal Lady Spring of Precious Flowers.

You have all the silver screens and top of the line digital equipment,
The Transgenics to wipe out every butterfly but mine
(I who dream am also butterfly),
And I traverse your freeways with mouth agape,
I the legal alien I the illicit poet I the one
(Que viene con la tortilla en la mano), éste
Who left the ancestors behind in the land of deep, sweet sorrow,
I the one bringing an offering of hearts, torn-out, steaming, palpitating
Words like butterflies to this Altar-city of ungraspable tomorrows.

Leon Garcia Garagarza

bajh@email.msn.com