(Sometimes fictional characters hang over your head. Whisper to you in passageways. Sit cross-legged in your mind and refuse to leave.)
The little Chicano boy, torn in so many ways. You left him hanging.
Hanging between two hopes not his own. Between a varnished faith that has lost its lustre and a mythical tale bound in awe woven with fear.
Little Chicano boy, torn in so many ways. Still, you are waiting.
Waiting for the resolution to the conflict. The quiet faith-filled man of the soil or the wild wanderer of the plains? The confessionals and the holy host or the glint of gold and the sacred water spirit?
Little Chicano boy, torn in so many ways. I seethed with indignation at your lack of resolution.
Do I mourn the choice of an author not me?
Or, little Chicano boy,
do I wish
for your inner conflicts
am in need