Before they formed a path for tourist's feet,
a thousand horses thundered in the square
and splashed through this fountain
on their way to the Alamo.
Before the art galleries and painted t-shirts,
tempers and passions ruled here.
Their hands raised a church,
struck a man,
loved a woman.
Death and life are bound tightly to this place.
I feel its power;
cold fingers on my spine.
I am none of you, I cry.
Not Mexican, not Indian, not settler.
My ancestors fled Russia and Poland,
sailed their hopes to New York City. They never
kicked up dust in this disputed town.
And yet, you haunt me.
I cannot escape into the air-conditioned shops
where the merchants are all bilingual and they fight
only for my dollar.
I will take your fierce sadness with me.
Memory the only coin the dead can trade in.