(Bill Keaggy)
1.
Jose Felicito Figueroa Gutierrez, I walked his western concrete sidewalk
Catarino Gonzalez Merino, I walked underneath urban ficus branches he pruned
Mateo Salgado Perez, I walked by his painted storefront, “LICUADOS NATURALES PROBIOTICOS JUGOS BIONICOS PARA SALUD,” perky portraits of spiky flamboyant fruits
Chelve Benitez Jaramillo, I took them from his fingertips and bit firm whitish fleshy strawberries at the farmers market, $4
Rogelio Dominguez Benitez, I lit the sacks of mesquite charcoal he trucked from his state, sending flames and sparks up in the dark
Hector Ramirez Robles, I admired his variegated folds of multicolored hues, processes unfolding and shifting
Jorge Mauricio Torres Herrera, fuzzy 15 year old mustache, I know his wry glint, wondering about his empty chair 2 days
Roberto Rivera Gámez, I sanded bookshelves he built, finished them in the garage and let them dry
Serafin Rivera Gámez, I like the way his life is a broad avenue of marvelous lives, exchanged and relayed across blue light of oceanic distances
Elisendo Cabanas González, I know women he was working for, women he supported year in year out, looking out for—unfailing—their finite and infinite joys possible
Marco Antonio Villaseñor Acuña, 5, I was privileged to move through any day that was heartened by his heart, that was brightened by his gaze, that was sweetened with his breath
José Antonio Villaseñor Acuña, brushing my teeth with the lime green toothbrush recycled from plastics he processed
Edgar Gabriel Hernández Zúñiga, I peeled and ate the orange he handed to me
Juan Carlos Castillo Loredo, he passed between me and the sun, looking over the sun on the ocean
Ricardo González Mata, he built buildings that I walked through in October, to the second floor of the Science Library at University of California at Riverside to read poems
Oscar González Guerrero, my vehicle necessarily runs on parts he delivered, while I believe he’s reflected in a cloud along the San Gabriel Mountains
José Luis Ramirez Bravo, his touch folded inside clothes I happen to wear, fabric on skin
Juan José Morales, swallowing coffee from hills in his homeland, might’ve been his suggestion that I wake up
Augusto Stanley Vargas, it was his cash I received in change, I put those coins into a parking meter that didn’t work
2.
i took his notion i noticed her fillip
i thank her for regional fusion i was swayed by the tenuous assurances across the avenue
i marched with one million may first
he cut my hair
he set my vistas aright
they were both quiche i bought them lunch
she made the tamales of the past and the tamales outside of time
they filled the playground with signs of life
she made everyone’s skin glow with sunset at bolsa chica state beach
he punched the button in the elevator he swabbed my arm and took my blood
“relax your fist now,” he said
(my blood has been tested, it was found to be basically exactly the same)
“just hold that for a moment,” he said
Sesshu Foster has taught composition and literature in East L.A. for more than 25 years. He’s also taught writing at the University of Iowa, the California Institute for the Arts and the University of California, Santa Cruz. His work has been published in The Oxford Anthology of Modern American Poetry, Language for a New Century: Poetry from the Middle East, Asia and Beyond, and State of the Union: 50 Political Poems.