When I was nine I promised my father
I’d write of his grandfather,
of Old Mexico and El Rio Grande.
I’d write of guitarras and banditos,
of canciones and corazones.
The story is still unwritten.
It lies like a half-eaten banana
on a restaurant table, waiting
for me to pick it up and finish.
While my poetry, born in these hills,
is forever flavored
with Mexican spices.