cesar chavez arrived
at my house around nine,
wearing a grape-stained frock
and a bow-tie
as wrinkled as a raisin.
his hair was parted down the middle
like moses separating the waters,
it had the glorious sheen
of a single row of strawberries
shimmering in the fresno heat.
cesar chavez arrived
at my house around nine,
and he did not say too much
(at first).
so, i poured him some good tequila,
and he began to open up
about the perils of organizing in heaven.
apparently, god is big on denying medical benefits
and a living wage, and has a fondness for scabs.
“so god is just another lousy capitalist?” i query.
“no,” cesar replied, “he is the original capitalist.”
cesar then regales me with dramatic tales
of undocumented souls who sneak across saint peter’s gate,
led by halfassed coyotes with angel wing disguises
who can bribe god’s border patrol.
god’s border patrol nabs just the right amount of souls
to get middle heaven race baiters elected
to the head assembly of demigods, which is like
god’s congress.
cesar says that god’s congress
is worse than god himself,
the head assembly of demigods
a mere rubber stamp for bad executive decisions.
so, i immediately conclude that heaven
is the same as washington, d.c.
and that sounds more like hell.
cesar chavez arrived
at my house around nine,
but we did not eat
until well past midnight.
for starters, we had a fresh salad
of organic lettuce;
cesar wondered aloud
how anything left unsprayed
could have been picked by mexicans.
we continued
with an appetizer of taquitos de pollo.
cesar ate these up without pause
because he was fresh off another hunger strike.
“it was necessary to bring the plight
of god’s apple pickers to wider cosmic attention.”
cesar lost about thirty five pounds
looked as thin as the last taquito de pollo
that disappeared into the gape of his mouth.
for the main course,
we dined on my homemade pozole,
beads of hominy rubbing shoulders with
hair-studded snouts and ears.
cesar liked this authentic recipe, savored
its lack of artistic pretension.
the talk turned to the current situation
of migrantes, what good white people could do
besides planting water jugs
and marching with sterile signs.
“well,” cesar said, “they could
see them as the axis
upon which their privileges revolve.
they could close their eyes tight,
imagine a day without mexicans,
and pretend that anything in society
would really function."
filled with the bounty of my pozole,
i could only concur,
knowing that cesar chavez
did not come here, to my house,
to make a stir,
knowing that my tres leches cake
would be his ultimate dessert.
