The night air
brought back a voice
that weakened my knees.
It had bird
speech and asked me
questions about my childhood.
The words made
me fearful and
I was afraid of the
night like I
was when I was
a very young boy.
There is a little girl
who dances around in here.
I heard her laughing at me
right before you arrived.
I assume this is why
you have come to see me.
Don't tell me the two things
have nothing in common.
I need to get out of
this place because I can't
stand the little girl. Frankly,
she gets on my frayed nerves.
I should not speak to you
because I don't need your help.
What I need is to get
out of this crazy place.
I need to start working.
How can I get a job when
I'm in here taking pills
which leave me sedated?
I won't walk in traffic
anymore. The little
girl told me to do it.
Now I know she's evil.
I am upset
with what happened.
I'd like to see
those terrorists dead
and bombed into
the stone age.
I would like to
help the troops and
get involved. But I'm
just an old lady
in no shape to fight
those sad bastards.
Those poor people
at the World Trade
Center and on
those planes need
to be avenged. My
blood boils over.
George and Dick need
to get their heads
out of the sand
and grab a gun
too. They can't let
all the young folks
do all the work.
If I wasn't in
this wheelchair, I'd
get my old bones
out there, and be
all I can be.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, 39, was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos (Mexico), and has lived in Los Angeles County since age 7. He works in the mental health field. His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in The American Dissident, The Blue Collar Review, Pemmican Press, and Struggle Magazine. His first book of poems, Raw Materials, is from Pygmy Forest Press.