Monday poems: "Gatekeepers" -- by Juan Delgado

1.

A crow gliding over a ravine was

The sign his eyes were waiting for.

They thought they were ready to cross.

The tumbleweed listening to a cricket

And seeing a line of ants snaking in

Was the figure of his younger sister,

Huddled by him, asking for a campfire.

They made it as far as a roadside store

And held their hands over the electric coils.

When asked if they were going to buy anything,

Their tongues broke off into halves

And fell to the floor like Popsicles.

2.

My father says I was born to translate

What he could only nod to for years.

He also says that God made a mistake

By blurring out his eyes first because

He can hear her asking for a blanket.

She saw a church adorned with hipbones,

Sun-bleached, and beautiful as curved jewelry.

She dreamt of its wide doors, and after dipping

Her finger in His palm, she felt His warmth.

My father says that cactus needles fly

And burn like the memory of lost ones,

Then he tells me I was born to study

The sand trails and notice when footsteps

Drag and turn to knee and handprints.

Those are ones I need to follow, he says.

*     *     *     *     *

Juan Delgado has published three collections of poetry—Green Web (1994), selected by poet Dara Weir for the Contemporary Poetry Prize at the University of Georgia; El Campo (1998); and A Rush of Hands (2003).

Delgado is professor of creative writing, Chicano literature, and poetry at the California State University, San Bernardino.