Border Town

This is a poem I submitted to “Borderlands:Texas Poetry Review” who summarily rejected it. I thought it was pretty good, myself – kind of portraying a border town. I’m not sure what they didn’t like about it, but it’s OK – I’ve never bought their magazine and so what the hell; they can do whatever they like. I thought about writing them something mean for the rejection, like you might say to a girl at the 8th grade dance who declines your request to dance. Somehow, “I didn’t want to be published in your magazine anyway!” didn’t seem to work for this situation as well as it had in 8th grade. Anyway, I just found it tooling around and thought I didn’t have it anywhere else on the site, so what the hell.

where we lived, the mesquite would rise
into the afternoon air after the rains;
cardboard cages rose across the river
painted in swirling pinks and yellows
with their occupants milling the hills
down under their bare feet.
where we lived, the junkies shot up
in the alley behind our garage
trying to find heaven in the last frontier;
wondering how it was they got here
and why their cage wasn't painted
as beautifully as the poverty across the river.
Where we lived, I was different
so that the school girls
would come out of their cages
to touch my golden yellow hair
and their brothers/cousins/uncles
would yell behind them, "Pinche guero!"
where we lived, everyone spoke Spanish;
no one spoke to each other, instead
preferring to speak to the world
with each lost breath from too many days
under the border sun, beating down
hard upon our backs, sapping the drive.
where we lived, kindness was a rag
dangling from the fence of an abandoned lot
and love was held in the can
that the children kicked about
until the oldest would yell "GOOAAAALLLL!!!",
expiring the celebration as his breath ended.
where we lived, the desert was forever
and our lives only a grain in that eternity;
no matter how much you needed to escape,
or how long you'd been in line at the bus station,
that desert was made of our bones;
they would all be sand,
and I would no longer be any different.
Soapbox Artist: collecting art & literature of the worst kind