poem

At eight I was brilliant with my body.

In July, that ring of heat

We all jumped through, I sat in the bleachers

Of Romain Playground, in the lengthening

Shade that rose from our dirty feet.

(5)

The game before us was mor

e than baseball.

It was a figure

--

Hector Moreno

Quick and hard with turned muscles,

His crouch the one I assumed before an altar of worn baseball cards in my room.

I came here because I was Mexican, a stick

(10)

Of brown light in love with those

Who could

do it

--

the triple and hard slide,

The gloves eating balls into double plays.

What could I do with 50 pounds, my shyness,

My black torch of hair, about to go out?

(15)

Father was dead, his face no longer

Hanging over the table or our sleep

And Mother was th

e terror of mouths

Twisting hurt by butter knives.

In the bleachers I was brilliant with my body,

(20)

Waving players in and stomping my feet,

Growing sweaty in the presence of whiteshirts.

I chewed sunflower seeds. I drank water

And bit my arm through the

late innings.

When Hector lined balls into deep

Center, in my mind I rounded the bases

(25)

With him, my face flared, my hair lifting

Beautifully, because we were coming home to the arms of brown people.

Used

with permission from Chronicle Books, publisher of Gary Soto

Now read the lecture again.