El Paso "FLAVORED" Poetry (home, school, pine)

[LEVOW]

The Good Life

by Bobby Byrd

—after playing basketball on Tuesday night

Down at the Pine Knot Junior
on Yandell Street
the Mexican lady says,
You got pretty eyes.
I believe anything she says.
Muchas Gracias. Yo tea mo.
She laughs and blushes.
Me too.
She sells me and my friends
Big Boys of Beer
—16 oz. of Busch or Old Milwaukee
in a mason jar for 80 cents each.
Plus tax.
On the TV the Braves play the Astros.
Jose Cruz is an old man.
So is Nolan Ryan.
So am I.
So are most of my friends.
It’s almost October, and nobody cares.
The Astros were done for last month.
We sit outside instead.
The sun goes down over the mountain.
Saturn is hung right next to the moon
between two pink clouds and the twilight blue sky.
Yeah, that’s right.
Eternity.
Texas is like this sometimes.
Not all the time.
But sometimes.
And that is usually enough.

[LEVOW]

This is so that people will remember


That you were born in Chihuahua
when the nation was at war with itself
That you were the youngest daughter of five
That you were the middle child of ten
That your eyes were green and your hair light brown
That you were the one who smiled
That your sisters told you that they loved you the most

This is so that people will remember
That you spent your short life migrating
From Chihuahua to El Paso to la Ciudad de México
That your young life was shaped by Revolution
and economic crisis
And the day to day wonders
Of your mother’s tortillas and your baby brother’s eyes

This is so that people will remember
That your mother died when you were ten
That when your father left you
He crossed the border to drink himself to death
That your sisters cried each night alone
Missing your mother’s touch, her soft gaze

This is so that people will remember
That you were not alone
That a million others joined you
Pushed out of the land of opportunity
by violence and poverty and hope that
Somewhere else would be better

This is so that people will remember
That your last thoughts were of sitting at the kitchen table
Listening to your mother hum softly as she cooked
That the pain in your stomach could not
drown out the memories
Of walking home from school laughing
That at the end you let go without fear

This is so that people will remember
That somewhere in this massive city lay your bones
Laid to rest so many decades ago
In an unmarked grave in the sacred ground of Tenochtitlan
That for seventy years your sisters cried
To have left you so far from home.

[peggydavis]

Levow, I love that first poem by Bobby Byrd. Who wrote the next poem?