estos turnos
or mazatlán & iquique

uneven development
renders our voicespart of the maelstrom
of ocean and wind.
t reeks of salt
we taste every breath
in the edges
of metal rusting
after years.

turnos appear
in the lines.
always the lines.
in iquique, it is always
the mines.
with their constant
pull of backs 
& hands. up the mountain
in the bus rides.
con cada turno.
con cada 7-5-7.
the code unlocking
security to awaiting
bodies awaiting
their turno in the mine.

it appears
in the lines.
always the lines.
outside the hotel
in mazatlán. venado
town blues as tambora.
appears in the uniformed
men and women 
wearing long socks. &
hairnets.
all awaiting the bus 
home from their turno.
their shift.

we walk by.
head high.
saludamos.
las "buenas tardes"
recall honor
in work.
in spaces toiling.
gwendolyn brooks' line
"one does what one must..."
"for one's child depends..."

turnos
as hours
become days.
become months.
become years.
for the ones 
toiling day in
and out.

turnos
begin as training
as apprenticeship.
as aprendizaje
to feed the machine
called labor
in a town.
with few exits
outside of "esta cruzada
es para mi madre..." 
miguel sings.

last words,
on a conversation
destined for a home.
and the humility
makes you reach
beyond your brow
to rememember
all work is honorable.

for the turnos,
ake toll. on lives.
on breaths.
on backs.
in nuestro américa
where we come to find
ourselves. waiting. 
waiting in line.

josé josé died

josé josé died today.
it's sunny. & the words
slip down the slide
memory. they talk 
to you. & pacho shares
the tributo. pacho shares
what i hold close
to me: 
my father & mother
sharing & singing the words
to josé josé's songs.

i'm not at home.
there is no family pool
to remind me that nostalgia
es una palabra que corta.
que hablaré con mis primos
lamentaremos un poco
y llegarán los chistes. harán más
pequeña la tristeza.
my primos'll make
the pain smaller.

y todavía 
recuerdo. i remember
playing these songs
to my students in a forgotten
elementary school. in a forgotten
city. & yet the words
mean more than expected.
like all great singers.
like all great songs.

josé josé dies.
& the dj plays the cheesiest
of maná songs. the ones
reminding you how
your mother & father
held hands. 
in those days.
in those days you thought
would last at least until your children
grew to be adults.

& you realize. singers
& songs. come & go.
they give & die.
like so many fruit
on your trees.

like words enunciating
desire, birth, & longing.
when we wait for a bridge
to have us take pause.
for a bridge to take
us home.

Adrián Arancibia is an author and critic based in San Diego, California. He is a founder of the seminal Chicano/Latino performance poetry collective Taco Shop Poets. Born in Iquique, Chile (1971), Arancibia is the co-editor of the Taco Shop Poets Anthology: Chorizo Tonguefire (Chorizo Tonguefire Press). He has authored the collection of poetry titled Atacama Poems (City Works Press) and The Keeper/El guardador (Editorial La Ratona Cartonera) and will release another collection of poetry titled Poems of Exhaustion (Parentheses B.C. Press 2019). A Literature Ph.D., he currently works as a professor of English and Creative Writing at Miramar Community College. His creative work depicts and comments on the lives of immigrants, while his critical work focuses on literature and its relation to social spaces and popular culture.