Arturito, when you were born
the hospital gasped when
they fished you from your fist of sleep,
a rude welcome you didn’t like a bit,
and I don’t blame you. The world’s a mess.
You inherited the family sleepiness and overslept.
And in that sea the days were nacre.
When you arrived on Mexican time,
you were a wonder, a splendor, a plunder,
more royal than any Olmec
and as mysterious and grand.
And everyone said “¡Ay!”
or “Oh!” depending on their native tongue.
So, here you are, godchild,
a marvel that could compete with any ancient god
asleep beneath the Campeche corn. A ti te tocó
the aunt who dislikes kids and Catholics,
your godmother. Don’t cry!
What do amazing godmothers do?
They give amazing gifts. Mine to you—
three wishes.
First, I wish you noble like Zapata,
because a man is one who guards
Second, I wish you a Gandhi wisdom,
he knew power is not the fist,
he knew the power of the powerless.
Third, I wish you Mother Teresa generous.
Because the way of wealth is giving
yourself away to others.
Zapata, Gandhi, Mother Teresa.
Great plans! Grand joy! Amazingness!
For you, my godchild, nothing less.
These are my wishes, Arturo Olmec,
Arturito amazing boy.
Escribí este poema para mi ahijado, Arturo Javier Cisneros Zamora, el 8 de febrero, 1993, en San Antonio de Bexar, Tejas.