Sweat like icicles
pierce cracked skin.
Tender from the scorching
star in space. A ball as big
as the knot growing
in your throat when you see-
men handing signature-filled
booklets saying: passport.
Madre always warned-
do not look back Ignacio
or else doomed to be
a pillar of salt. The very
thought reminds his
tongue to touch
crust like dried ocean
on his upper lip.
"Apurale hombre"
"La migra, Ignacio"
Madre always did say
men must run
when stupidity traps
rationality in a
lucha for survival.
Donde esta el coyote?
Trained on dens
hiding the unfree.
Where are these
brown rubble inns
filled with hope?
"Apurale, Ignacio"
Lights as bright
as a hooker blast through
men like dregs of coke
splattered on rocks.
Hands course as
a madre's eyes tear
at brown skin.
"Apurale, Ignacio
que ya llega la migra"
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