manny moreno

I've been waiting for a call from the guys in Sacramento
to say when they will bring their new pow-wow drum,
me to smudge, say a few words over.

A strong rain storm soaked us three days,
heads down the valley laughing on its way,
sky and sun on the rebound
dazzle the day.

This shoebox converted into a room
becomes my universe, from here my thoughts
twinkle like stars.

I live in three mindsets diverse as
morning, noon and night,
in a white world but I'm not white,
in a Mexican menagerie but not from Mexico,
in fragmented indigenous ways that set me in motion
many moons ago to revive and keep alive,
Yaqui / Tarascan.

In three worlds I have endured
hyphenated and confusing,
a ball of rage and compassion
all wound up in one,
and for decades my spirit sings with the old ones,
some say don't exist.

Two hand drums on a plastic bare book shelf
mimic sun and moon, heartbeats of the people
ever ready for some songs.

Across Longview Road a hawk lands on
a telephone pole, stands stoic
before the sun, suddenly the phone rings,
I rise to dry my eyes and answer the call:
You can start the fire, we're on our way.