With the bajo sixto’s bounce
it taps its toes, claws pitching
up divots of caliche. It shimmies
from the waist down with the
accordion’s wheezing swirls.
It imagines it is Gregorio Cortez
pursued by los rinches across
South Texas—Seguin to Eagle Pass—
one horizon ahead of the pursuing
posse of corrido gringos.
Or with Los Pinguiños del Norte
desperate in the brush—el desesperado—
for food, for love, and for home,
running to the beat of ranchera,
just one boracho perdido.
It dreams it has gone to San Antonio
and hangs out on West Commerce—
Viva el West Side—trying to see
the ghost of Lydia Mendoza in the bottom
of a long neck Lone Star.
But it is Monday, and Chupacabra
is just west of Cotulla, and the polka
fades on the air waves. Back to the grind,
sniffing for cabrito on the hoof
in lonely arroyos.
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