I had never heard the term dirt before. It was in a chemistry lab, and a bunch of guys had put "dirt" in the tube and were arguing whether or not it could have live stuff in it. I couldn't understand the argument (dirt in the tubes? maybe it's some bacteria?) until my labmate explained to me that it was the soil. The soil from the ground? Why do you call it dirt?

My little brother and I used to play a lot in our front yard. We would dig up secret weapons tunnels, pave the railroad to the Lunar Base and launch oddly-shaped rocky rockets from them. We brought the water hose and flooded ants dwellings. Other kids on their way back home from school would see us and join in the intergalactic quest for discovering the evil weapons … while under our nails "dirt" would accumulate.

It was not dirty at all. It was neatly humid and cool enough to let hairs on the other side of your palms rise. It smelled good. We smelled good. Mom went crazy, because our clothes wouldn't look appropriate in front of the other adults, because those huge spots on our pants would never get clean, but who cared? You couldn't replace the joy of finding that rare gusanito beneath a root firmly stuck in the foundations of your house.

There is no word in the English language that represents this term. Tierra. Dirt is to be washed off, soil is for farmers. Earth is that abstract circumferential thing standing lonely in Mr. Salinas' geography classroom. You can't replace tierra. Why not play with dirt? Because it is dirty. Because it might have dangerous fertilizers. Because it's so humongous you can't build tiny towers with it.

Ensuciémonos. Ensuciarse con tierra es sano.
 
Tras el aspavientos
Agitador concierto, ya lo esperaba.
Rachmaninoff.
Calla tú, y oye por aguas salpicadas en sangre y temblores que derrumban.
Calla, y oye en medio de panteras escapando de la calamidad
inminente y desvelos diurnos.
Se hablará para esa lágrima que derramares,
trizado el espíritu.
Llano cielo y océano con furor porque no hay miradas
hoy.
Llueve entre crepúsculos dos, cae ríos de movimientos mal
entendidos
y llamas azules, rocío en flores y derramamiento de sudor y
brasas.
Escucha. Roca fuerte, metálica, de tamaños ciclópeos; cayendo y
rodando, dando tumbos por esta escalera sin comienzo ni fin.
Nubes -
desconocidos culpables de lágrimas divinas - escuchad,
celebrad el rito del
fuego, el aspa desprendido de tu molino,
desprendido a fuerza de canto y
sollozos. Celebrad el sacrificio del
desierto único, la sierra abandonada,
donde los vientos cortan sus venas
y las tormentas excavan un tumba. Los ríos
subterráneos
corren. Serpentean entre abrasador falta de humedad,
bálsamo
para ardillas, lagartos, tristes cactus esparcidos en las
dunas
sin horizontes. Un río corre bajo el aspavientos.
Días y noches de tortura y
cenizas fugaces.
Rachmaninoff. Escucha.