Jimmy Santiago Baca

Yesterday, the sunshine made the air glow pushing me like a sixteen-year-old to toss my shirt off, and run along the river shore, splashing in the water, wading out to the reeds, my heart an ancient Yaki drum and I believed, more than believed, the air beneath trees was female blue dancers I approached, and there in the dry leaves, in the crisp twigs, I turned softly as if dancing with a blue woman made of air, sunlight, in shrub-weed skirts. I knew the dance that would please the Gods, I knew the dance that would make the river water smile glistening ever silvering, I knew the dance steps that praised my ancestors. Yeah, I wanted to write you a poem woman for two days, and today it was gray and snowy and overcast, about how I startled the mallards from their shallow refuge beneath the Russian olive trees and how the male purposely came close to me diverting my attention to it its female love went the other way risking its life, that's what I saw, the male fly before the hunter's rifles, circle in sights of hunters and take the shots, the roaring rifle blast after blast and circle beyond over the fields to meet its female companion. That's how I miss you, that's how I wanted to write you a poem since we left you one way me another way. I was the male taking with me the hunters that would harm you risking my heart so yours wouldn't be hurt, fronting myself as possible prey so you could escape, that kind of poem I am writing you now. Circling as hunters aim down on me while you rise, rise, rise into the blue sky and meet me over in the next fields. I wanted to write you a poem for two days now to tell you how happy I was, seeing a white crane arc between banks in the irrigation ditch with furious efforts, its big wings flapping like an awkward nine-year-old kid much taller than the others his age with size twelve sneakers flapping down the basketball court. But once the white crane found its balance, its wings their grace, it glided more perfectly than a ballet dancer's leap across air, all of its feathers ballet dancer's toes, all of its feathers delicate dancers all of its feathers, in motion made me believe in myself, but more, when it rose, swooped up, the line of ascent up made me think of the curve of your spine, how I traced my finger down your spine when you slept, your spine is the ascent of the crane toward the sunshine, and my hands my face my torso and chest and legs and hips became air, a blue cold artic air you glided up in your song of winter love.

They turn the water off, so I live without water, they build walls higher, so I live without treetops, they paint the windows black, so I live without sunshine, they lock my cage, so I live without going anywhere, they take each last tear I have, I live without tears, they take my heart and rip it open, I live without heart, they take my life and crush it, so I live without a future, they say I am beastly and fiendish, so I have no friends, they stop up each hope, so I have no passage out of hell, they give me pain, so I live with pain, they give me hate, so I live with my hate, they have changed me, and I am not the same man, they give me no shower, so I live with my smell, they separate me from my brothers, so I live without brothers, who understands me when I say this is beautiful? who understands me when I say I have found other freedoms? I cannot fly or make something appear in my hand, I cannot make the heavens open or the earth tremble, I can live with myself, and I am amazed at myself, my love, my beauty, I am taken by my failures, astounded by my fears, I am stubborn and childish, in the midst of this wreckage of life they incurred, I practice being myself, and I have found parts of myself never dreamed of by me, they were goaded out from under rocks in my heart when the walls were built higher, when the water was turned off and the windows painted black. I followed these signs like an old tracker and followed the tracks deep into myself, followed the blood-spotted path, deeper into dangerous regions, and found so many parts of myself, who taught me water is not everything, and gave me new eyes to see through walls, and when they spoke, sunlight came out of their mouths, and I was laughing at me with them, we laughed like children and made pacts to always be loyal, who understands me when I say this is beautiful? CORRECTION : the last line of the first stanza was corrected to read "who understands me when I say I have found other freedoms?", and the first line of the second stanza was corrected to read "I cannot fly or make something appear in my hand," on November 15, 2010.

There are black guards slamming cell gates on black men, And brown guards saying hello to brown men with numbers on their backs, And white guards laughing with white cons, and red guards, few, say nothing to red inmates as they walk by to chow and cells. There you have it, the little antpile . . . convicts marching in straight lines, guards flying on badged wings, permits to sting, to glut themselves at the cost of secluding themselves from their people . . Turning off their minds like watertaps wrapped in gunnysacks that insulate the pipes carrying the pale weak water to their hearts. It gets bad when you see these same guards carrying buckets of blood out of cells, see them puking at the smell, the people, their own people slashing their wrists, hanging themselves with belts from light outlets; it gets bad to see them clean up the mess, carry the blue cold body out under sheets, and then retake their places in guard cages, watching their people maul and mangle themselves, And over this blood-rutted land, the sun shines, the guards talk of horses and guns, go to the store and buy new boots, and the longer they work here the more powerful they become, taking on the presence of some ancient mummy, down in the dungeons of prison, a mummy that will not listen, but has a strange power in this dark world, to be so utterly disgusting in ignorance, and yet so proudly command so many men. . . . And the convicts themselves, at the mummy’s feet, blood-splattered leather, at this one’s feet, they become cobras sucking life out of their brothers, they fight for rings and money and drugs, in this pit of pain their teeth bare fangs, to fight for what morsels they can. . . . And the other convicts, guilty of nothing but their born color, guilty of being innocent, they slowly turn to dust in the nightly winds here, flying in the wind back to their farms and cities. From the gash in their hearts, sand flies up spraying over houses and through trees, look at the sand blow over this deserted place, you are looking at them.

for Tony I could not disengage my world from the rest of humanity. Wind chill factor 11° below. All night wind thrashes barechested trees like a West Texas tent evangelist hissing them on his knees, lisping sinnn . . . sinn . . . sinn . . . All night wind preaches. Old tool shed behind my house fist-cuffs itself to nail-loose tin, horse pasture gates clank their crimes, while neighing black stallions of rain stampede on the patio fleeing gunshots of thunder . . . . Miles south of here, nightscopes pick up human heat that green fuzz helicopter dash panels. A mother whispers, “Sssshhhh mejito, nomás poco más allá. Nomás poco más allá.” Dunes of playing-dead people jack rabbit under strobe lights and cutting whack/blades, “Ssshhh mejito. Sssshhhh.” Child whimpers and staggers in blinding dust and gnashing wind. Those not caught, scratch sand up to sleep against underbellies of roots and stones. Eventually Juanito comes to my door, sick from eating stucco chips— his meals scratched off walls of temporary shelters, and Enrique, who guzzled water at industrial pipes pouring green foam out at the El Paso/Juarez border, and Maria steaming with fever, face dark meteorite, whispers, “Where I come from, Señor Baca, a woman’s womb is a rock, and children born from me, drop like stones, to become dust under death squad’s boots.” And Juanito, “They came at midnight and took my brothers. I have never seen them since. Each judge’s tongue is a bleeding stub of death, and each lawyer’s finger a soft coffin nail.” And Enrique, “You can trust no one. Each crying person’s eye is a damp cellar where thieves and murderers sleep.” They have found refuge here at Black Mesa. The sun passes between our lives, as between two trees, one gray, one green, but side by side.

for Miguel It would be neat if with the New Year I could leave my loneliness behind with the old year. My leathery loneliness an old pair of work boots my dog vigorously head-shakes back and forth in its jaws, chews on for hours every day in my front yard— rain, sun, snow, or wind in bare feet, pondering my poem, I’d look out my window and see that dirty pair of boots in the yard. But my happiness depends so much on wearing those boots. At the end of my day while I’m in a chair listening to a Mexican corrido I stare at my boots appreciating: all the wrong roads we’ve taken, all the drug and whiskey houses we’ve visited, and as the Mexican singer wails his pain, I smile at my boots, understanding every note in his voice, and strangers, when they see my boots rocking back and forth on my feet keeping beat to the song, see how my boots are scuffed, tooth-marked, worn-soled. I keep wearing them because they fit so good and I need them, especially when I love so hard, where I go up those boulder strewn trails, where flowers crack rocks in their defiant love for the light.

Winter throws his great white shield on the ground, breaking thin arms of twisting branches, and then howls on the north side of the Black Mesa a deep, throaty laughter. Because of him we have to sell our cattle that rake snow for stubble. Having lived his whole life in a few weeks, slow and pensive he walks away, dragging his silver-stream shield down branches and over the ground, he keeps walking slowly away into death bravely.

We are born with dreams in our hearts, looking for better days ahead. At the gates we are given new papers, our old clothes are taken and we are given overalls like mechanics wear. We are given shots and doctors ask questions. Then we gather in another room where counselors orient us to the new land we will now live in. We take tests. Some of us were craftsmen in the old world, good with our hands and proud of our work. Others were good with their heads. They used common sense like scholars use glasses and books to reach the world. But most of us didn’t finish high school. The old men who have lived here stare at us, from deep disturbed eyes, sulking, retreated. We pass them as they stand around idle, leaning on shovels and rakes or against walls. Our expectations are high: in the old world, they talked about rehabilitation, about being able to finish school, and learning an extra good trade. But right away we are sent to work as dishwashers, to work in fields for three cents an hour. The administration says this is temporary So we go about our business, blacks with blacks, poor whites with poor whites, chicanos and indians by themselves. The administration says this is right, no mixing of cultures, let them stay apart, like in the old neighborhoods we came from. We came here to get away from false promises, from dictators in our neighborhoods, who wore blue suits and broke our doors down when they wanted, arrested us when they felt like, swinging clubs and shooting guns as they pleased. But it’s no different here. It’s all concentrated. The doctors don’t care, our bodies decay, our minds deteriorate, we learn nothing of value. Our lives don’t get better, we go down quick. My cell is crisscrossed with laundry lines, my T-shirts, boxer shorts, socks and pants are drying. Just like it used to be in my neighborhood: from all the tenements laundry hung window to window. Across the way Joey is sticking his hands through the bars to hand Felipé a cigarette, men are hollering back and forth cell to cell, saying their sinks don’t work, or somebody downstairs hollers angrily about a toilet overflowing, or that the heaters don’t work. I ask Coyote next door to shoot me over a little more soap to finish my laundry. I look down and see new immigrants coming in, mattresses rolled up and on their shoulders, new haircuts and brogan boots, looking around, each with a dream in their heart, thinking they’ll get a chance to change their lives. But in the end, some will just sit around talking about how good the old world was. Some of the younger ones will become gangsters. Some will die and others will go on living without a soul, a future, or a reason to live. Some will make it out of here with hate in their eyes, but so very few make it out of here as human as they came in, they leave wondering what good they are now as they look at their hands so long away from their tools, as they look at themselves, so long gone from their families, so long gone from life itself, so many things have changed.

I am offering this poem to you, since I have nothing else to give. Keep it like a warm coat when winter comes to cover you, or like a pair of thick socks the cold cannot bite through, I love you, I have nothing else to give you, so it is a pot full of yellow corn to warm your belly in winter, it is a scarf for your head, to wear over your hair, to tie up around your face, I love you, Keep it, treasure this as you would if you were lost, needing direction, in the wilderness life becomes when mature; and in the corner of your drawer, tucked away like a cabin or hogan in dense trees, come knocking, and I will answer, give you directions, and let you warm yourself by this fire, rest by this fire, and make you feel safe I love you, It’s all I have to give, and all anyone needs to live, and to go on living inside, when the world outside no longer cares if you live or die; remember, I love you.

Twenty-eight shotgun pellets crater my thighs, belly and groin. I gently thumb each burnt bead, fingering scabbed stubs with ointment. Could have neutered me, made extinct the volatile, romantic man I am. “He’s dead,” doctor at emergency room could’ve easily told my wife that night. Instead, “Soak him in a bath twice a day. Apply this ointment to the sores. Here’s a month’s supply of pain killers.” I remember the deep guttural groan I gave, when the doctor pressed my groin. Assured I could still make love, morphine drowsed me and in a dull stupor I don’t remember police visiting my bed, or laughing so hard, they scowled for a serious answer. I howled a U.F.O. shot me along the Río Grande, and they cursed and left. In the summer of ’88 I’d traded alfalfa for a bull calf. Still smelling of milk udders, I tied it to the truck rack and drove off. Its hooves teethed at pink roots ’til the whole lush field went bare dirt. A magnificent bull. Glowing wheel of heart breathed brimming stream of white flame at dawn. He wrangled his black brawn like a battleshield to challenge the sun, reared thick neck down and sideways, lunged at me with dart and snort, hoof-stamped and nostrilled dirt, ’til I growled him back whipping air with a limber willow branch, poured grain in trough and spread alfalfa. I respected his horns and he the whistling menace of willow. One afternoon my cousin Patricio helped me band the bull’s scrotum, usurp swollen sap in his testicle sack. It withered to a pink wattle and seeded the garden to drive cornstalks to bear hardy, golden horns. Thereafter, he grazed the fenceline, with the tempered lust and peaceful grace of a celibate priest. His bearing now arranged itself elegant as a wild flower sprung over night. ______________ Perfecto shot it. Rasping on a black rope of blood round its neck, it staggered, bouldering convulsions. Blood exploding in bright lash of earthquaked air, it stumble-butted stock trailer fender— second and third shots glowed its death. A quivering shadow of life-flame darkened the air and it sputtered a last drop of blood. I drank long swigs of whiskey and, thinking it was dead, turned to walk away, then it gave a tremendous groan, tremendous groan, a birth-letting groan . . . a moon groan . . . blood spurted out, thick, thick, thick alleys of dead star blood and I turned and said aloud to myself, “That’s the moon’s voice! That’s the moon’s voice!” And the white moon was in the sky, and I looked at the moon for a long time. ______________ I sat on the ground and gulped whiskey, drank the steer’s death still warm in my throat. A beautiful animal! I allowed to be butchered. When it trounced and galloped in the field, its body was a dark, windy cliff edge, and its eyes were doorways of a dream— now it bled a charred scroll of ancient chant in gravel, I would never know, and its blackened logs of blood smoldered dying vowels, I would never hear. My heart’s creak-n-tremble rage milled the steer’s death to red grist, I grieved, I wept drunkenly that no one cared, that humankind betrayed him, that we were all cowards. ______________ Perfecto, Valasquez and the butcher tried to stop me from driving, but now was the time to settle a bad feud with another friend. Redeem the bull’s blood with ours. I drove to Felipe’s house, anger knotted in me tight as the rope tied to the stock trailer steer strained against. I pulled, but could not free myself. (I had a dream night before— I crossed black-iron footbridge, partially collapsed by sea storm. Left-hand railing swept out to sea, I gripped bolt-studded right-hand railing, finger-clutched wire netting sides, carefully descended waist-high water. Waded through slowly and ascended other side— but had lost my sunglasses and wallet, went back, groped bottom, found them and ascended again.) Had to cross that bridge again. Full of significance . . . tonight, deepest part of flooded bridge was danger . . . drowning . . . represented years of my life collapsed and destroyed, water the cleansing element, my ascent from had healed, onto firm ground, but I went back, to re-live destruction… “Felipe!” I yelled, porch light flicked on, illuminating the yard. “Came to fight,” I said, “take off your glasses.” Bug-eyes glazed bewildered, then gray slits of lips snarled, “You motherless dog!” He withdrew in darkness a moment, reappeared on porch, serrated saw of his voice cut the chill dark, “¡Hijo de su pinche madre! ¡Mátalo!   ¡¡Mátalo!!” First shot framed darkness round me with a spillway of bright light, eruption of sound, and second shot roared a spray of brilliance and the third gave an expanded halo-flash. My legs woozed, and then I buckled to the ground. (I thought, holy shit, what ever happened to the old yard-style fight between estranged friends!) I groaned with the steer, and crawled my dead legs to the truck, lunged on elbows into the cab, hand lifting the dead stone beneath my waist to clutch and brake. Following morning calls came, “Tell us who did it Gato!” “Our rifles are loaded!” I said, “Leave it alone. What would you do if a drunk man came into your yard, threatened to beat you?” I wanted peace, wanted to diffuse the immovable core of vengeance in my heart, I had carried since a child, dismantle the bloody wheel of violence I had ridden since a child. During my week in bed, pellets pollinated me with a forgotten peace, and between waking thoughts of anger and vengeance, sleep was a small meadow of light, a clearing I walked into and rested. Fragrance of peace filled me as fragrance of flowers and dirt permeate hands that work in the garden all day. Curandero came to visit, and said, “The bull in ancient times was the symbol of females. Did you know that? Killing the bull, is killing the intuitive part of yourself, the feminine part. Did you realize, when Jesus was raising Lazarus, he groaned in his spirit and that bull groaned, and when you killed the bull, it was raising you. The dying bull gave birth to you and now you are either blessed or cursed. The flood of that bull’s blood, is either going to drown you or liberate you, but it will not be wasted.”

It is windy today. A wall of wind crashes against, windows clunk against, iron frames as wind swings past broken glass and seethes, like a frightened cat in empty spaces of the cellblock. In the exercise yard we sat huddled in our prison jackets, on our haunches against the fence, and the wind carried our words over the fences, while the vigilant guard on the tower held his cap at the sudden gust. I could see the main tower from where I sat, and the wind in my face gave me the feeling I could grasp the tower like a cornstalk, and snap it from its roots of rock. The wind plays it like a flute, this hollow shoot of rock. The brim girded with barbwire with a guard sitting there also, listening intently to the sounds as clouds cover the sun. I thought of the day I was coming to prison, in the back seat of a police car, hands and ankles chained, the policeman pointed, “See that big water tank? The big silver one out there, sticking up? That’s the prison.” And here I am, I cannot believe it. Sometimes it is such a dream, a dream, where I stand up in the face of the wind, like now, it blows at my jacket, and my eyelids flick a little bit, while I stare disbelieving. . . . The third day of spring, and four years later, I can tell you, how a man can endure, how a man can become so cruel, how he can die or become so cold. I can tell you this, I have seen it every day, every day, and still I am strong enough to love you, love myself and feel good; even as the earth shakes and trembles, and I have not a thing to my name, I feel as if I have everything, everything.