In Quetzal
Diego Zavala-Morineau
We go fourth in your blessing and by tonight
we will need it at the turnstile in Quetzals.
We sat in dual-immersion classrooms,
we had nothing to say, the civilizing-force
could sing to itself for days, ‘go north,’
the resounding lullaby of refugee, reborn.
Como Quetzals en las casas de cambio,
tank-filling, north-coming, door-dashing--
diasporic, ere geographic disharmonic,
we cross Sonora into the food desert.
We fed at the eight strings of a Jarana.
We come of age on the
wretched shores,
our misty eyes are that of an immigrant,
beside our younger brother, an emigrant--
nowhere to be found, we couldn’t tell you.
We were made to drink from shallow orthography.
We were maimed by a spinning-flower kind
of infertile, this rosemary of sacred Orans.
We are led back to the campo, cartolandia,
overlooking hungering-feasting keepsake--
but do not take this for our stomach,
we hunger at the mouth of the beast.
[1] Bracero (1939-1964), under a bite force on slow mountainous climb usurped the orchard
even bore fruit but in dollars we negotiated grandfather folded like his green card like his knees
like his blue jeans like man 3 could feel their eyes what amazement they won’t name it for us
only smile.
we will need it at the turnstile in Quetzals.
We sat in dual-immersion classrooms,
we had nothing to say, the civilizing-force
could sing to itself for days, ‘go north,’
the resounding lullaby of refugee, reborn.
Como Quetzals en las casas de cambio,
tank-filling, north-coming, door-dashing--
diasporic, ere geographic disharmonic,
we cross Sonora into the food desert.
We fed at the eight strings of a Jarana.
We come of age on the
wretched shores,
our misty eyes are that of an immigrant,
beside our younger brother, an emigrant--
nowhere to be found, we couldn’t tell you.
We were made to drink from shallow orthography.
We were maimed by a spinning-flower kind
of infertile, this rosemary of sacred Orans.
We are led back to the campo, cartolandia,
overlooking hungering-feasting keepsake--
but do not take this for our stomach,
we hunger at the mouth of the beast.
[1] Bracero (1939-1964), under a bite force on slow mountainous climb usurped the orchard
even bore fruit but in dollars we negotiated grandfather folded like his green card like his knees
like his blue jeans like man 3 could feel their eyes what amazement they won’t name it for us
only smile.
Diego Zavala-Morineau (PO '28) is a poet , artist, scholar from the South Bay (National City and South-West Chula Vista). His earlier works explored the turmoil of young adulthood and grief, and in his latest corpus of writing, "BLUE IN THE FACE," learns from the experimental and exploratory traditions of Elizabeth Bishop, Prageeta Sharma, Jaswinder Bolina. Diego enjoys writing about family, transnationalism, and embedding political criticism within his creative writing.