Home

I always thought home was that place

with the wire-net fence

and the brown desert lawn

and the white stucco walls, coarse

like the stone of the bedrock.

I always thought it was the barrio blocks,

and the Western corridors,

patrolled by cop cars and fast food.

I thought it was the city I was born to

the House I was born to

with its eagle seal-of-arms, like a shield,

I had sworn to.

And I wore it proud.

Like a badge of honor that pledged my tongue

and thoughts as a part of my own.

A mark that said, opportunity’s ripe

and NOW, it’s yours

to own. And I trusted my home.

We’re kindred spirits after-all, she and I,

‘Cuz I believed in her creed;

as any loyal Greek to his city-home,

or patriot to emancipation

through declaration from master and lord.

And I loved my home.

For I learned her and she taught I

many of things:

For I am, what I think ergo

I am free.

I am bold.

I am indomitable.

But then,

I was told it was a lie.

And I only fooled myself.

Cuz I already had a home

And my home was old

and its mark, my skin

and it’s stood, long before

that chained-link fence

and brown dirt yard

and coarse white walls.

No. That is not your home.

Don’t you remember?

The people

the mountains

the roots, like blood

its laws

like chains

your birth an oath

to that faraway place

where the guaje tree grows.

Don’t you remember?