lineage ending in erasure

               or, "because i will not know what my father saw the day he crossed"



by Lauren Licona





the sun breaks like a yolk over the sonoran

and trickles dry into a tarp tent held together

by shrub branches, a makeshift beacon.

no rain has touched the ground in nearly a week.

on the staggered pulse of morning,

the man’s joints crack as he reaches

for his brother’s shoulder.

they have spent all night sweltered together

on desert rock, crouched and marrow tired.

their skin pricked and blistering,

he extends a calloused hand

and rattles him awake.



“vamos” he says. their going flows

into the early hours, out into the day.

they walk and carry and walk

and carry until their walking becomes the dredging

of limbs towards a horizon that seems

to wander backwards. the man feels the blisters

on his feet and thinks of his father. the one who roamed

from his family, only to give name to a son who has made

a sojourn of himself. he looks at his brother, less boy

by the minute. were they really moving forward?

or were they just wandering ‘round, never stumbling

out of themselves?

on the seventh mile of the day, they rest at the top of a hill.

on the other side of the mound, a man’s expatriated body

lay unclaimed in the desert. when asked years later,

the younger one would only recall the sight of an arm

fixed straight like an hour hand at midday.

the brother chokes, “who did this?” and

the man looks past, his voice cracked. “coyotes.”

he remarks, and pulls the boy away. his thoughts stagger back

to honduras. to the coop behind their house,

the fence ajar. how their father struck him for crying at

the sight of a gallina clawed open: a split and empty

chest cavity, a bird’s gaping mouth,

thirsting for speech, the way blood

ruptures and settles

into the dust.



what is a country but what remains

after being broken in and torn into?

what is a border but a line of men,

flanked into themselves?

 

                                                                           thoughts stumble

                              backwards,



to cracked speech,                walking. i know a border,

before i see my father.                               but what is a line



of men?



years later, i will look     at my chest               ajar,



struck      by

how         the

blood

remains.






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