The door to the presidential palace,

the century old oak, replaced again,

set ablaze again, as the voices se encendieron

like rage. The Molotovs flew, also.

They continued to shoot those stones

at the tanks and at the riflemen with black

uniforms serigraphed with Policía Federal.

A clink and la cristal blooms hot and wild.

The door, century-old oak, again set

on fire, replaced. The zócalo writhed

with bodies of those with masked faces:

they are on both sides. The children there,

too, throw that bottled petróleo at the oak door

of the presidential palace. The riflemen

behind their riot shields and masks exploded

the canisters of gas. White lettered uniforms

still creased. Still serigraphed white.

The baton made bloom with blood

a man with an EZLN handkerchief

at his chin. Yá se quedó. The park was clear.

When a boy walked through the sidewalk,

esa mancha on the ground was from a leaked

engine. The cars llenaron las calles;

he was visiting la abuelita, cannot be alone.

So she sat on the stoop, watched as he

ran to other boys who carried a soccer ball.

From inside, she listened as the canisters

of tear gas ejected with un grito de una resistencia.

She'd seen, countless times this year, the posters

of los cuarenta y tres perdidos. The anchor

spoke about the Molotov. One student

injured by the police, unidentified.

Oh, kerosene, detergent, and a flame spread

over what must be just down her quiet street,

quiet, save for the broadcast behind her

It was as safe as it was yesterday. Just

as clear. She watched the boys balance the ball

on their toes. They passed it about as another

squad car zopilote circled. Un uniforme,

igual como ayer, neatly pressed: Policía Federal.

Never use that name again.

Never look too deeply into my eyes.

Never, though you want to hold

your arms tight around my waist,

hold me too tight, and never cry

when you see me. Now practice

calling by a name, as uncle.

Say Uncle G—. Let it grow

to second nature. I don't mind.

It's best for you. Be their son.

Be the child they lost.

Try to be my nephew

even if you don't

understand why.