DUST IN CHILPANCINGO

                   Dust settles on us even when we walk;

                   Haunts us, warns us.

                   Kicked by bulls, dust pours from our mouths.

                   Blood burns as we try to escape.

                   There are only dry hills to hide in.

                   Hills where dust is stored like grain for winter.

                   The flies on our bread search for sweet specks

                   left from our lips; the moisture they thrive on.

                   The coffee is dust.

                   It steams into our nostrils, and we, like bulls,

                   turn our heads to watch women pass with children,

                   metal pots and handbags of fruit.

                   We have been gored

                   by lonely moments and empty greetings.

                   Stung by hopes we thought would save us.

                   The dust at sunset hangs in the air like a net

          waiting to reclaim our moving forms

                                                                   of dust.

                                     

                                                          -- C.S. Cholas

                                                    Chilpancingo, Guerrero, Mexico

                                                                        January 2, 1983