A POEM REVISITED

mother, keep your think black

lion-maned hair and your bronze

off of me:

i am not a Latino poet.

i am not a voice for your

revolution.

i am not the Chicano Savior.

i am not a wind from the Yucatan.

i am not a migrant pen

to be used when my father

is held

down to pick up

little sweetnesses for

Gringo mouths.

i am not a samba or a salsa

with rhythms

that make you sway

blindly to tribal

beats.

i am not a caramel wonder—

a surprise to all as

some success that made

it from oppression

that you allow to happen

in your own house.

i am not a cry of conquistadors

with thunderous cannons

to rape some supple

fertile woman called

Tenochtitlan

(whom i have never

known)

i am not ln love with Texas:

to be bigger is a thing

that makes me smaller

in my mind.

i am not my grandfather's grandson:

a generation after

generations after generations

of labor.

i am not this eagle

perched upon a cactus between

fields and blood that

drip as darkness dies

and whiteness rides.

i am not your Hispanic wish

to dig you out

of your hole you've dug

with slurs

and puffs and rides

and chains.

i am not your Catholic child—

a slave to a rosary;

a mindless follower of

a vengeful God spread by

vengeful men.

mother, keep your thick black

lion-maned hair and your bronze

off of me: i am not a latino poet.