 This is a poem called Mercado about the San Antonio Mercado that was once a real Mercado with fruit and vegetables and then they took it apart and then they made it a fake Mercado and that's perfect sense. My grandmother used to shop there. She still has, we still have the family house on Camarón and right there in front of the creek by Five Points, a big old house on Stilts. Today, my mom and I drive downtown past pecan trees making whisper sounds. Take the Dusty Rose Cadillac Park far in the back of Calle Pecos la Trinidad by el Mercado y en esta día estamos comprando. And the year is 1961 when wooden boots and stands carried eggs and sweet bun, leche camada and caramel flan. Other stands carried metates, molcajetes and cast iron skillet pans. Mama would take out her thick cotton sack and move right along with her plan of attack. Onions, olive oil, salt, cilantro, potatoes, peppercorns, garlic, omino. She'd haggle with Mr. Peña, the produce vendor. I'll give you a dollar for all the ones brewed and he'd look at her. Half insulted, half amused and he'd tell her, Senora, claro que sí, you do me good business by taking this junk from me. And then they'd wink at the inside joke and I'd wonder what next mama would provoke. Because next we'd buy fruit, some soft and some firm, the sweetest, most luscious she would discern, like the anthropologist searching for sacred bones, like the geologist searching for lost stones. Mama would scavenge that wooden fruit stand until she held the perfect ayuacate in her soft and strong hand. So she'd say, you know, but it's a little bruised. And then the fruit vendor, half insulted, half amused, would give a small break on already the cost and mama counted every small victory not lost. And finally, on top of that thick cotton sack, on to the dulces, the booths toward the back and mama allowed me to pick sweets from the stand. I chose some pineapples, some sweet potato and ya bastante. She'd yell without shame porque ya estás gorda and your father's to blame. But I didn't worry because at home I would find that she'd snuck in some extra. She had it there all the time. And now our day is done at the market of the sun, driving home at 15 miles per hour in 1961, driving back down to our little house downtown, back toward the con trees that make the whisper sounds. Mama, me and the thick cotton sack, us, low and slow, in a rose Cadillac. I'm really honored to be up here with sharing the stage with all these wonderful poets. This one is simply an ode to Garmin. You are sonnets and salsa. You are the turquoise rebosos that brighten your eyes, wise as missionary nuns, yet wild with the light of children at play. You continue to teach con orgullo y gusto. You don't stop. You don't quit. For that alone you should be honored. But today we celebrate that as a city, San Antonio chose to honor you as our poet laureate, our inaugural poet laureate. You are the poet of the pueblo. We celebrate you as you celebrate us with this river here. Even while your body fights cancer, you continue to work more and more as the days go by. You travel to Paris, France and just about every town in Texas performing, presenting poetry. You don't stop. You don't quit. Even through all the challenges you face as a daughter, as a mother, as a wife, through all the strife you persevere, you remain the people's poet. Now you are the Texas state poet laureate. You don't stop. You don't quit. You continue to share your words, your energia, like a curandera. Healing throughout hills, valleys, plains, you inspire all. Garmin, you are the chili peppers, serrano y chilepequins, feeding our hunger. Garmin, you are the blue, the green of our San Antonio's river, soothing our souls. Garmin, you are the dazzling yellow of the esperanzas, the scarlet crepe myrtles, flowers that flourish even with nominal life-sustaining water. Garmin, you are the pride of San Antonio and we love you. I posted on Facebook that I don't usually read my poetry because I don't really think of myself as a poet, but Carmen always encourages people so much to read their poetry and to think of themselves in terms of poets, so thank you, Carmen, so much. Santa Rubia, most holy poet, St. Carmen, la Santa Rubia, faithful muse. You do not seek our devotion, but come on. We all know you're the patron saint of obstinate poems and the overworked poets who cannot ignore them. Pray for me, Santa Rubia, that I may receive your vision in my time of need, my deadline. Get this poem sitting in my belly out of me. These words sit like rocks in my gut. They are the fruit of fear. They are the 500 years of my San Cestro's whispering. Santa Rubia, these fears eat me from the inside and my body can no longer host them. I must set them free, turn their accurate taste to phrases of love for humanity. And so I petition your intercession. Help me form these rocky ruminations into diamonds. Give me bravery to take the darkest caverns where they hide. Strength to move meters and form feats that walk in brilliance. Bring me clarity of metaphor. The power of rhyme. Keep my memory in truth and not nostalgia. Ay, Santa Rubia, te pido, te pido, te pido. Let my words be indigina. Chicana, Palestinian, Jew, Syrian, Filipino, Kenyan, Ugandan, Chinese, Scottish, Italian or... Look at that, yeah? Let them travel through my body so that they remember me wholly. My scent, my disappointment, my sex, my joys, my exes, my fears. Let them use my identities for my communities who need them. Let these words that I will free bring them entered energy. Let them bring pride to our old and hope to our young. And should you choose to honor this petition, I vow to attend ten poetry readings. Not performances, straight up poetry readings. And not thinking in the back of my head that they really pulled that one on their brass pocket or that it's totally derivative or maybe irrelevant or maybe not. It all seems metaphorical. I pray to you amen.