^{(para la bisabuela I never knew)}

Our lineage—eight burros fencing
             a single aguacate tree in the middle
             of an open field. This is where
you kneel, hide behind the blinking eyes,
             soft bellies of a breathing shield,
             tails smacking at buzz-stung air.

Torches burn barns to the ground
             behind you, daughters grasping
             both your hands, youngest slung
across your breast like La Adelita’s bandolera
             all because you packed a lunch, tied
             a sprig of mint in your son’s hat.

The soldiers said he was feeding
             the wrong side, so they bound
             his hands and marched him blind-
folded three days to the next village,
             where a noose wreathed his neck,
             feet planted like stones on a crate.

What if you hadn’t burst in, breathless
             and begging just before they kicked
             it out from under him; from under
the church that received his sunbeaten
             body, soaked rags, and wrang drops
             of water on clay lips; from under

the train that hauled him north
             with the woman who housed seeds
             that would sprout ears perked for each
other’s screaming when she pushed all of us
             into the singed world with no ring
             of stubborn creatures to shield us?