by Jennifer Sicking

Under the sagebrush, he could be asleep
As he lies prone with his head propped
On a lean satchel. His arms cross
Over a sunken stomach as a strand
Of black hair flutters in the sere wind.

Unrelenting desperation due to raining bullets
And pooling blood drove him from his poor
Nacion, directing him north to the promise
Land. Away from the soul comfort of home,
Haunted by his novia’s dark eyes, he turned

And stumbled into the arms of desert death.

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