so once again he would heave, would struggle to thrust it up,
sweat drenching his body, dust swirling above his head.
- The Odyssey, Book XI: The Kingdom of the Dead
Because he found
brother, cousin
facedown.
Because he lost
home like bones lose
flesh. Nights, he sits
in bed, stitches
his heart with cactus
spines, the muscle
thick, leather-bound.
Somedays he feels
wind rip pages
from his book of
longing, pin them
to barbed wire.
Somedays he can't
go on, lets heat
blister through him
like water dumped
by la migra
from matte black jugs.
Because he can't
go on, he must
go on. Father
taught him sun's a
rattlesnake. Cover your
neck, mijo, heat's
venom. Still the
nation, like the sun,
flares up, rears back,
strikes—
bodies stagger
to underbrush.
How to go on
searching for the
missing, planting
white crosses for
their remains, up-
and-down sun-stroked
valleys, knowing
the desert, like
a vulture, claims
the flesh of bones?
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