I’ve avoided opening my throat in fear the dead would rise, walk out of me, leave me emptier after their fleeting, and still get deported back into the abyss they climbed from. I don’t think they hunger me. They want to abandon and find a soft rock to lay their head on, a voice, an empty water jug, a song, the striking pain of a windless and deserted desert or a revolver or drugs or gang affiliations. Instead I hoax them to sit perched, their black wings all slick and crow-like while I drag the weight of Mexican unsung mourning in choir. Now I have someone to blame.
I know I’m godless when my thirst converts water into wasps, my country a carpet I finger for crumbs. A country my grandmother breeds dogs instead of daughters because only one can be called home. I am trained to lose accents,
After my grandfather died I waited for him to arrive In Minneapolis. Daily I walked across the water Wearing my black armband Sewn from scraps, ears trained for his voice. Migration teaches death, deprives us Of the language of the body,