The Chichimecas

The Chichimecas

by Richard Garcia

The Chichimecas are in the hills.

They have built a huge bonfire.

I am at my window with a telescope

counting shadows flickering in front of the flames.

There must be at least a thousand Chichimecas

and their many dogs, for they are the dog people.

 

Maybe there is only one Chichimeca

and his dog pacing back and forth

in front of the fire trying to make me think

that there are one thousand Chichimecas in the hills.

 

There are Chichimecas in the alley.

They have taken down the street signs

and built another bonfire—STOP, SCHOOL CROSSING,

SLIPPERY WHEN WET, the Chichimecas are showing

a preference for S's slithering into smoke.

 

The Chichimecas have broken into the abandoned

train station from one of my poems. The one

where the sound of the plastic tips of my shoelaces

clicks against pavement like lobsters.

They are cooking the lobsters in a steel drum.

After they have devoured the lobsters, they lie down

with their dogs. Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff the dogs.

 

Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff the Chichimecas,

for they have found aerosol paint cans

and they are holding rags soaked with paint spray

to their noses. This makes the moon come down.

 

Chichi mommy, chichi mommy, chant the Chichimecas

as they fall asleep in a pile with their many dogs.

Chichi mommy as they snore and dream that the stars

are dripping milk into their open mouths.