P/V
One
I live in a barrio
in my head never very
far from a taco truck
on the corner of Florence
and Holmes Avenues
It makes no difference
if I stroll down Rodeo
Drive the surrounding
opulence worlds away
from el remate on Saturday
afternoon where families
with five or six or seven
children each sweat for
the ninety-nine cent
bargains and afterwards
una raspada de limón
Still I live
in a barrio in my
head never very far
from my mother's
tortillas hot off the
fire and the little
ones she made especially
for me when I was
just a boy
Most every meal in my
house now comes wrapped
en harina o maiz warm
as memories and as good
as life can get (it seems
just about at times)
I will never forget
houses too small for
families too large
enchiladas de queso
on Fridays during Lent
comida made with love
and kindness in my
grandfather's kitchen
nor the smell of crude
oil in the Wilmington air
Two
I left Los Angeles in a
flurry of rifle shots
from a passing car
18 years old and high
on Angel Dust I followed
those railroad tracks
into the world ready
for life or death
I will never forget
Sunday morning drunks
Mexican men on horseback
galloping through the
back alleys of our
lives I can still hear
KGFJ radio from the
heart of Watts Angeles
pinche chota chase me
home at night stop
me search me "to
protect and serve"
So I live in a barrio
in my head always just
an arm's length from
jail it makes no
difference if I walk
across Independence Mall
these stolen streets still
stained with blood of
slave and Indian before
me I hear the air still
filled with their screams
Murals of La Virgen swirl
'round this barrio in my
head not Capitol Hill
those seats of power so
far from my reach standing
at this end of a long and
unyielding American night
Danny Romero
Danny Romero is the author of the novel Calle 10 (Mercury House).