Paul Martínez Pompa has lived in the Chicagoland area for most of his life. He studied at the University of Chicago and at Indiana University, where he received his MFA in creative writing. His chapbook, Pepper Spray, was published by Momotombo Press in 2006, and his first book My Kill Adore Him was selected by Martín Espada for the 2008 Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize (University of Notre Dame Press, 2009). He currently teaches English at Triton College. His writing has appeared in After Hours, Borderlands, Locuspoint, and Rhino.
AMPUTEE ETCETERA
Nothing cuter
than a war amputee.
His limb not as fleshy ruin
but as fresh bouquet
of soft tissue, blasted with love
through desert air.
Nothing prettier
than a deserted semi-trailer
loaded with dead Mexicans.
How their mouths fall
open like little brown orchids
thirsty for a breath
of hot air.
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than a Chi-town cop
who pummels a bartender
one-third his size.
See his fists not as mallets
but as opportunity, knocking
her body again, again.
Nothing sweeter
than a white politician
who plays the erase card
when a black man speaks.
Like the weather,
cultural imperialism
gives us something
to look forward to.
Nothing truer
than a poet who resists
on paper. Admire his nerve
to condemn from a safe
distance, where he can
keep his shoes
and his conscience
perfectly clean.
THE ABUELITA POEM
1. SKIN & CORN
Her brown skin glistens as the sun
pours through the kitchen window
like gold leche. After grinding
the nixtamal, a word so beautifully ethnic
it must not only be italicized but underlined
to let you, the reader, know you've encountered
something beautifully ethnic, she kneads
with the hands of centuries-old ancestor
spirits who magically yet realistically possess her
until the masa is smooth as a lowrider's
chrome bumper. And I know she must do this
with care because it says so on a website
that explains how to make homemade corn tortillas.
So much labor for this peasant bread,
this edible art birthed from Abuelita's
brown skin which is still glistening
in the sun.
II. APOLOGY
Before she died I called my abuelita
grandma. I cannot remember
if she made corn tortillas from scratch
but, O, how she'd flip the factory fresh
El Milagros (Quality Since 1950)
on the burner, bathe them in butter
& salt for her grandchildren.
How she'd knead the buttons
on the telephone, order me food
from Pizza Hut. I assure you,
gentle reader, this was done
with the spirit of Mesoameríca
ablaze in her fingertips.
Paul is clearly headed into national prominence, as one of the new 21st century Chicano poets. I know he's well on his way. Get those first editions while you can. Sandra Cisneros' first chapbook BAD BOYS who owns one? (I just happen to have two).