Overheard at Table 5: The Suns of Various Deserts Bleach All Our Bones

The Suns of Various Deserts Bleach All Our Bones

We are all bitter-boned.

No manches.

We are all at the mercy of the shadows that we have

spun out of our own frustrations, and

woven into our own shape.

 

We can slap the table with the shot glass

and shout “Chinga madre!”

but that will never bring back

the smiles of our brothers

who disappeared crossing la línea.

 

We are always silent,

when we stand at the counter,

writing out our numbers,

to send our dollars back home,

so that our mothers can

pay la renta

to the Mareros,

for permiso to cross the street

to the tienda to buy

masa y leche.

 

 

MR

2018-0508