The Chicano/Latino Literary Prize by Stephanie Fetta

the
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â highest place
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â around—
    taking care
    of each other,
    an old lady and a child
    being careful
    not to need
    more than can be
    given.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â we sometimes went to the
    place where the nuns lived and
    on certain days they would
    give us a bag of food, you
    and the old Mexican nun talking,
    you were always gracious;
    and yet their smell of dead
    flowers and the rustle of their robes
    always made me feel
    shame: I would rather
    steal.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â and when you held my bleeding nose
    for hours, when I’d become
    afraid, you’d tell me
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€”Todo se pasa—.
    after you died I learned
    to ride my bike to the ocean
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â I remember the night
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â we took the ’5 McCallister
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â to the ocean and it was
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â storming and frightening
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â but we bought frozen chocolate bananas
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â on a stick and ate them
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â standing, just you and I
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â in the warm, wet night—
    and sometimes I’d wonder why
    things had to pass and I’d
    have to run as fast as I could
    till my breath wouldn’t let me
    or climb a building scaffold to the
    end of its steel or
    climb Rocky Mountain and
    sit on Devil’s Rock
    and dare the devil
    to show his face
    or ride my bike till the
    end of the streets hit
    sand and became ocean
    and I knew
    the answer, mamacita, but
    I wouldn’t even say it to
    myself.
    grandmother to mother to
    daughter to my daughter,
    the only thing that truly
    does not pass is
    love—
    and you
    knew it.

1977-78
    Nedra Ruíz
    First Prize: Poetry
Poems
E XTRAORDINARY
    Chessman is part of my childhood,
    rumors of a man saying goodbye;
    It is in my head that there was
    a bright light on his smiles,
    a light like a stroke
    of a China brush.
    Shadows cluster near the light,
    a man with a rat up his sleeve
    drops the trick in the bucket
    and steps back to see:
    The water boils with hair and shit,
    spit dots the floor. The eyes turn
    white as they look to the brain.
    At such and such a time
    this man, who wrote his life
    on toilet paper, heaves his
    guts into his lungs and begins to rot.
L OOKING AT M Y L EGS I T HINK OF H