Monday, July 5, 2021

The Brutal Baja

The mesquite fields wait to explode.
How could I let them go
As rough and unyielding as they seem?
How can I be separate from them,
The toughened saguaro fingers,
The unrelenting stone
As the vying crowns of thorn
Rasp for the smallest moisture
And stab for the most inhospitable crag?

The haze comes down 
And makes the hills seem endless
Instead of opaque.
"No El Paso" it says
As the seeds wave away
And the white hombres walk in the dust.
How can I say 
I'm already there?
How hard it is, the leaving?