They just brought us breakfast. My celly wakes up
               And we talk and eat.
His wife went to a fortune-teller
               And according to her he will be getting out soon.
He is a Vietnam vet doing time on a junk beef.
               He gives me coffee and cigarettes
And I compose poems for his wife and two young girls.
               He is a loner with big brown eyes.
He combs his light brown hair in the morning
               And I taunt him jovially about his farts.
I think the American troops evacuated Nam because of his farts.
               He is a blue ribbon winner in the sport
Of passing air. He shares everything with me,
               Soap, pants, shirts, coffee and cigarettes.
And what food I don’t want on my tray I give to him.
               His philosophy is simple: just let me and my family
Live in peace. A Chicano who picked cotton when young,
               Wisps caught in his hair
On afternoons when he visited his girl,
               Then married her and worked as a meatcutter;
His wife gave birth to a baby girl, then they adopted another one,
               Then off to Vietnam to serve a country
Whose heels only he had seen. . . .
               And when back, all it could offer him was prison,
Breakage of love bonds between him and his family,
               Sunken cheeks and eyes turning pale
Like a great bear in hibernation during Spring,
               Streams rot black, berries shrivel, and the sound
Of gunfire in the distance,
               Tractors plowing under his life
As he watches from those great pale eyes,
               Tractor blades claw his heart out,
Remove it slowly like a great mountain, drilling a tunnel
               Right down the middle of it,
Dynamiting it, as his dreams tumble down into heaps of rubble.
               But still, he wakes up this morning,
Is a porter for our tier, giving out trays, hustling
               Up and down stairwells.
Losing so much, Big Joe, house, car, horses,
               Your daughters weeping for your presence,
Your wife your only bridge to reality,
               Where do you go from here, Big Joe?
Denver, California, or will you stick around Arizona?
               You with no friends, only acquaintances,
With an old army suit hanging in your closet back home,
               With you banging against the door of Hope
Until your knuckles bleed,
               Diving into your memories hitting rock bottom,
Blood trickles from your eyes,
               The burnt stubs of church candles.
Even if you say you have only acquaintances,
               And blindfold yourself from closer ties,
In the dusty square of town we have never been to
               I buy you a beer and read you a poem
And stand at your side if ever you need me.

© Copyright Jimmy Santiago Baca

Immigrants in Our Own Land is available from Louisiana State University Press, Baton Rouge, La. 70803 for $3.95 paper, $9.95 hardback. Our thanks to LSU Press for permission to reprint “Joe.”