Breathing Space. Harold J. Recinos

      Breathing Space

      Copyright © 2017 Harold J. Recinos. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-3949-4

      hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-3950-0

      ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-3951-7

      Manufactured in the U.S.A.

      The Block

      someone told me in a few

      days the wind would bring

      news of the neighborhood

      sliding into perfection, yet

      it will not be easy to see with

      ordinary eyes, but the birds

      resting on the rooftops will

      flap their wings to see it clear

      for us. as it takes a firm hold

      not one disillusionment on the

      block will make us think life

      is hunger, longing, sadness,

      tragedy and loss. someone told

      me there must be a religion for

      all these brown lives living in

      the neighborhood, light-hearted talk

      of Tito’s grandfather dancing on

      on his only leg, exquisite words

      to carry us to the depths, and long

      descriptions of a place greater than

      the evidence of broken lives. someone

      told me to be patient in the world of

      poverty and tattered dress, perfection

      is just up the street, humming its way

      to us and will soon slip with large eyes

      unto our street.

      First Day

      I remember sharpened pencils

      out the night before the first day

      of school on a notebook, holding

      on to the idea of scribbling new

      thoughts about why old women on

      the block never learned to speak

      a lick of English, finding novel ways

      to see with clarity our end of the

      city that was never held up to a

      hint of light, and seeing words

      from some tome lunge at me to

      reveal why the kids with Spanish

      sounding names found their way

      into dark boxes marked for the grave

      dressed up lastly in new suits with

      black laced shoes shining for eternal

      rest. with pencil and notebook in

      hand, I would arrive early at school

      take my seat like an envoy from a foreign

      land eager for new lessons, and within

      seconds it was clear the teachers expected

      someone else in the room, after repeating

      with patronizing smiles, “You are not to

      speak Spanish at school!”

      Name

      when, you cross the

      border to this new land

      what risks wait for you

      beyond the unannounced

      raids at work, or the quiet

      walks with your kids, or

      the Sunday break in a local

      park, or the morning rides

      on the bus, or the meal taken

      in the American coffee shop

      across the street? when, la migra

      bangs on your thin apartment

      door seeking to slam you in

      a tax made cell, will you look

      back to shout good-bye to your

      American born kids, will you

      tell another friend to avoid the

      bright lights? when the avalanche

      of hate comes toward you in the

      loud thudding footsteps of pale-faced

      men eager to give you a fresh thorn

      crown will you remember your

      own precious name?

      The Road

      they followed a yellow brick road

      across two borders without the sight

      of day, waded across forbidden currents

      in an ancient river while vultures circled

      overhead, whispered on the long walk to

      a poor Crucified King, and prayed for a

      thousand miracles to hurry down from

      heaven to deliver them to their Emerald

      City. they slept in the desert like tossed

      out rags, scribbled dreams in the soil of

      the North, evaded the militia men with

      a hunger for blood, and questioned the

      land of freedom for dark skin. they

      settled in cities hiding amid crowds,

      raised children to speak ingles without

      Spanish drawls, boys grew up to serve in

      foreign wars, girls imagined a white marriage

      would keep them from a wooden cross, and

      elders prayed for an end to building the nation

      with the price of dark blood. they keep coming

      to El Norte, where nothing is secure, with pockets

      full of need, strangers with dreams, yearning for

      a place to call home.

      Awake