the middle of those acacias, whiptails, and coyotes, someone yelled
“¡La Migra!” and everyone ran.
In that dried creek where forty of us slept, we turned to each other,
and you flew from my side in the dirt.
Black-throated sparrows and dawn
hitting the tops of mesquites.
Against the herd of legs,
you sprinted back toward me,
I jumped on your shoulders,
and we ran from the white trucks, then their guns.
I said, “freeze Chino, ¡pará por favor!”
So I wouldn’t touch their legs that kicked you,
you pushed me under your chest,
and I’ve never thanked you.
Beautiful Chino —
the only name I know to call you by —
farewell your tattooed chest: the M,
the S, the 13. Farewell
the phone number you gave me
when you went east to Virginia,
and I went west to San Francisco.
You called twice a month,
then your cousin said the gang you ran from
in San Salvador
found you in Alexandria. Farewell
your brown arms that shielded me then,
that shield me now, from La Migra.
El Salvador
Salvador, if I return on a summer day, so humid my thumb
will clean your beard of salt, and if I touch your volcanic face,
kiss your pumice breath, please don’t let cops say: he’s gangster.
Don’t let gangsters say: he’s wrong barrio. Your barrios
stain you with pollen. Every day cops and gangsters pick at you
with their metallic beaks, and presidents, guilty.
Dad swears he’ll never return, Mom wants to see her mom,
and in the news: black bags, more and more of us leave.
Parents say: don’t go; you have tattoos. It’s the law; you don’t know
what law means there. ¿But what do they know? We don’t
have greencards. Grandparents say: nothing happens here.
Cousin says: here, it’s worse. Don’t come, you could be. . .
Stupid Salvador, you see our black bags, our empty homes,
our fear to say: the war has never stopped, and still you lie
and say: I’m fine, I’m fine, but if I don’t brush Abuelita’s hair,
wash her pots and pans, I cry. Tonight, how I wish
you made it easier to love you, Salvador. Make it easier
to never have to risk our lives.
On a Dirt Road outside Oaxaca
The Mexican never said how long.
¿How long? Not long. ¿How much?
Not much. Never told us we’d hide in vans like matchsticks.
In our town, we’d never known Mexicans
besides the women and men in soap operas,
so in our heads, we played the fence,
the San Ysidro McDonald’s, a quick run, a van.
Not long, not long at all. In Oaxaca,
a small brown lizard licks horchata from my hand —
we’re friends, we pick names for each other.
Hola Paula. Hola Javier, she says.
We play the fence, a quick run, the van. . .
¿How long? Not long. On the dirt,
our knees tell truths to the cops’ front-sights and barrels.
¿How much? Not much.
We’d never known Mexicans besides Chente,
Chavela Vargas. We’re on the dirt
like dogs showing nipples
to offspring, it’s not spring,
and we’re going to where there is spring,
we say it’s gonna be alright,
it’s gonna be just fine —
my hands play with Paula.
Cassette Tape
A
To cross México we’re packed in boats
twenty aboard, eighteen hours straight to Oaxaca.
Vomit and gasoline keep us up. At 5 a.m.
we get to shore, we run to the trucks, cops
rob us down the road — without handcuffs,
our guide gets in their Ford and we know
it’s all been planned. Not one peso left
so we get desperate — Diosito, forgive us
for hiding in trailers. We sleep in Nogales till
our third try when finally I meet Papá Javi.
»
