¿Sin Voz?
Monday, January 26th, 2004. 3:21pm. Tagged .logan phillips 26enero2004 (from the book español
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<p> <em>Ayudame corazón<br />
me dejó la vida<br />
su linea está bien fría<br />
pero todavía quemo<br />
todavía quemo</em></p>
<p>It’s not that they’re voiceless<br />
I’m sick of them being called voiceless<br />
It’s that we have no ears with which to hear them,<br />
our ears of engrish & comfort<br />
our faces of clean water<br />
<em>nuestras caras de agua limpia</em></p>
<p> From the door of the hospital where I was born it is only 25 miles as<br />
the crow or <em>zipolte</em> flies to the Mexican border<br />
and it’s just a trick of politics & tricky fate<br />
that I speak this spanglish with a gringo accent<br />
instead of speaking engrish with a latin tounge<br />
It’s just a tricky trick of politic <br />
that racism calls me <em>pinche güero y gringo puñatero</em><br />
instead of fucking beaner and greasy border jumper<br />
So this could be a poem of differences<br />
about <em>este güero tratando<br />
y el racismo por ambos lados</em><br />
racism is dichotomies<br />
but this isn’t that poem</p>
<p> <em>Ayudame corazón<br />
me dejé la vida</em></p>
<p> It’s not that they’re voiceless<br />
I’m sick of them being called voiceless<br />
It’s that sometimes their voices speak in a way that only eyes<br />
can hear<br />
In the Huachuca Mountains that stand between my childhood swingset<br />
and <em>México</em><br />
One can go, if so inclined<br />
up the incline of these mountains that stand on the border<br />
and see where the old hiking trails have swelled<br />
under the worn shoe soles of restless souls, poor<br />
They have crossed here in such numbers, through the mountains<br />
because the US has built such walls & barbwire<br />
as to make the flatlands no mans lands<br />
no womans land<br />
no childs land no more <em>y nada más</em><br />
These mountains strewn with discarded tin cans & plastic <br />
every one labeled <em>en español, hechos en México</em><br />
So this could be a poem about the mountains and their scenic trails<br />
strewn con la basura sucia, the trash of travelers<br />
but between the suffering scenic views and the suffering of these <em>campesinos</em>,<br />
I know where I stand<br />
So this isn’t that keep-the-dirty-Mexicans-out-of-our-beautiful-mountains<br />
bullshit poem<br />
Sure as hell not that poem</p>
<p> <em>me dejó la vida<br />
su linea está bien fría</em></p>
<p> It’s not that they’re voiceless <br />
<em>no me digas ésta pinche mentira otra vez</em><br />
It’s that sometimes numbers speak louder than verbs<br />
60% of all 8 million illegal mexican immigrants living in the US crossed<br />
through Arizona<br />
150 more than dead in 2003<br />
145 dead in 2002<br />
14 dead in a single december day 2003<br />
130 degrees en el suelo of the desert<br />
In Mexico the average person makes 4,000 dollars a year<br />
How many did you make last year?<br />
So yeah, this could be a poem of numbers<br />
if numbers had faces<br />
but this isn’t a faceless poem<br />
<em>ahorrita no y jamás</em></p>
<p> And so we wait for a solution<br />
depending on which side you’re waiting<br />
you’re either dying in waiting or just waiting<br />
Immigration accords, <br />
beauty becoming blurry<br />
the border becoming more blurry still, <br />
a border population that will double in the next 25 years<br />
we wait<br />
in the meantime<br />
howbout this:<br />
Just notice dark skin, even if its not working for you<br />
Learn Spanish, cause your grandkids are gonna speak it anyway<br />
Listen with your eyes<br />
Act with your heart<br />
Put faces on numbers<br />
Watch your tounge<br />
and whatever you decide to do, just do not call them voiceless<br />
They speak<br />
it’s our ears that make the choice whether or not to hear a single<br />
word they say</p>
<p>•</p>
<p>Categories: <a href= "View all posts in poetry")
poetry
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