Nopales for Breakfast

maybe one day
they'll finally use
that key they carry
forever in their pocket
-Francisco X. Alarcón; Poor Poets.

My grandmother is
Preparing the
Nopales
In the kitchen--
It is dawn.

As she cuts
Away at the
Flesh of
The ancient
Plant,
Stripping it
Of its thorns,
I see
Our future,
Raza:

It is just
As green;
It is fertile
And tangible.

We are those
Tranquil fields
Where the
Nopales
Originate and flourish;

We have discovered
Boundless oceans
In our
Humble gardens.

The memory
Of the last
Harvest still
Resides
On our
Sweaty palms.

We are those
Seeds of
Love and honor--
The same ones
Implanted in us
By our
Proud ancestors.

Will you wash
Away at
Your strong,
Brown palms,
Raza?

Will you try
And cleanse
Your flesh of
That memory?

Will you flee
To the
Concrete city
At sunset?

Hungry for
Profits;

Hungry for
Television;

Hungry for
Clothing;

Starving for
Assimilation?

Do your
Knuckles
Not bleed:

Aztec
Turquoise?

P'urhépecha
Bronze?

Zapotec
Indigo?

Try and
Punch the
Spray-painted
Gutters
In your barrio,
Raza,
And tell me
What color
Your knuckles
Bleed.

Tell me,
Raza.