Monday, February 27, 2017


by Jimmy Santiago Baca

     for Tony

I could not disengage my world
                                from the rest of humanity.
                                Wind chill factor 11° below. All night
wind thrashes barechested trees
like a West Texas tent evangelist
                                hissing them on his knees,
                                         sinnn . . . sinn . . . sinn . . .
                                         All night wind preaches.

Old tool shed
behind my house
fist-cuffs itself to nail-loose tin,
horse pasture gates
clank their crimes,
while neighing black stallions of rain
stampede on the patio
fleeing gunshots of thunder . . . .

Miles south of here,
nightscopes pick up human heat
that green fuzz helicopter
dash panels.
                    A mother whispers,
         Sssshhhh mejito, nomás poco más allá.
                                 Nomás poco más allá.
Dunes of playing-dead people
jack rabbit under strobe lights
and cutting whack/blades,
                     “Ssshhh mejito.
                    Sssshhhh.” Child whimpers
                    and staggers in blinding dust
                    and gnashing wind.

Those not caught, scratch sand up
to sleep against underbellies
of roots and stones.

Eventually Juanito comes to my door,
sick from eating stucco chips—
his meals scratched off
walls of temporary shelters,
and Enrique, who guzzled water
at industrial pipes
pouring green foam out
at the El Paso/Juarez border,
and Maria steaming with fever,
face dark meteorite, whispers,
                    “Where I come from, Señor Baca,
                    a woman’s womb is a rock,
                    and children born from me,
                    drop like stones, to become dust
                    under death squad’s boots.”

And Juanito,
                    “They came at midnight
                    and took my brothers. I have
                    never seen them since. Each judge’s tongue
                    is a bleeding stub of death, and each lawyer’s
                    finger a soft coffin nail.”

And Enrique,
                    “You can trust no one.
                    Each crying person’s eye is a damp cellar
                    where thieves and murderers sleep.”

They have found refuge here
at Black Mesa.

The sun passes between our lives,
as between two trees,
one gray, one green,
but side by side.

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