Little Birds (Or: In My World, There is No Hate)

Little girl daydreams

are full of birthday parties,

strawberry popsicles

that drip in the sun.

Piñatas and candy,

Mami cooks tamales,

and Papá sings mañanitas

to rouse her in the morning. 

Little girl realities

are full of stares.

People look at her face

(but don't really look),

look at Mami's beautiful brown face,

hear Mami habla en español,

and wonder

without asking;

their disapproving silences 

say just enough.

Little girl nightmares

are full of flashes--

red and blue--

in the dark.

Guns and badges thrust in her face,

Mami screaming 

and clutching her hand

to stop the world from going...

going...

from going to pieces.

Papá in handcuffs,

mouthing the words 

"Te amo, be brave"

through the windshield.

Some kids at school

call her things she's only heard 

on TV, where angry people 

wave fingers in brown faces.

But some kids are quiet,

scared for their own papás

working in the fruit fields

or driving down the streets.

Her poor little heart 

is torn 

in two pieces.

One piece still sings,

"Despierta, mi bien, despierta,

mira que ya amaneci.

Ya los pajarillos cantan,

la luna ya se meti."*

The other cries herself to sleep

somewhere in Mexico. 

*Awaken, my dear, awaken,

and see that the day has dawned.

Now the little birds are singing,

and the moon has set.