In this corner of the desert,
she has already died.
I pick up her broken mask,
promise to glue it together again.
My mother roams the border
she floats between the countries
she thought would share her heart.
My pillow saves the dreams
the dead have weaved,
banking on milagros.
I have a monsoon wish:
Let the rains wash away
the boots of the border patrol
so they step in flooded sand
because I am tired of la migra
who walk with feet of rock,
who clothe me in a cape of fear
who make me think
that god is a wolf in the night.
I string silver beads,
still believe in resurrections.
I get phantom pains where the barbed wire
cut my mother's arms.
My hair has grown into a broom
it sweeps away the blisters,
drags along my washgun hope.
Café con leche keeps me awake
in case of visions de mí mama..
She dreamed of dinnertime,
but I'm not hungry anymore.
I count moonbeam strips
& pray for shooting stars
listen for her whisper
it sounds like purple silk.
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