coyote runner
by Leslie Kay Quintana
you said you did it for fun, crossing the border. you said
when the immigration officer stood three feet in front of
you, you held your freedom in a breath under a desert bush
- then laughed when he stepped on you. you said you did it
just to taste the woman’s tacos de frijoles, the ones she sold
for fifty cents between the fields of cars, windows of lives
you’ll never truly know - how they tasted like the home
you were running away from. you said nopales became a
secret friend under the moon that lit up two worlds, only
miles apart. you said you watched a little girl dance away
the cold, her bones the only music you heard in the night.