Little Chirp Town

I’m from the dollar sundays and chicken nugget specials--

but usually enchiladas y chiles rellenos.

 

I’m from the used and unwanted,

the worn,

a little stretched and torn.

From the peek over my shoulder

hope it’s not your hand me downs.

 

I’m from that little chirp town,

with vanilla and chocolate faces,

and I was just a caramel

that swirled at the pozole parties.

Where homemade pinatas poured spicy candies

down on confused but happy faces.

 

I’m from monkey bars and gel pen creations

tire swing twirls and hammack rockers

 

I’m from inside dumpsters

filled with wilted flowers

and flower shop men

warning of dangerous things

 

I’m from railroad noise and

squished railroad coins.

 

I’m from pine cone trees

and bitter winter breeze,

scraped knees,

and a few kids tease

because I live in two worlds.

The english and spanish where

roots could just vanish.

 

I would lay with the weeds

and tell God of my wants

but mostly my needs.

He loves me.

He loves me not.

God.

He loves us.

He loves us not.

God.

 

 

 

 
This poem is about: 
Me
My community
My country
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741