I can’t say what remains
after the shoelace snaps
threadbare and depleted
when the sun drips down the opaque sky
after dehydration is complete
I can’t know what remains
of bottles and bones
fortnights bleached in desert sun
blood splattered on sand
congealing in dust
with not a drop or respite
in sight
I can’t see past the melting horizon
where the tears of Las Tias
are swept south by border winds
before they can fill
The dried-up riverbed
It echoes with sorrow and rage
Rage and sorrow
congested by smoke-spewing maquiladoras
drowned out by the psychotic screeching of metal on metal
penetrated by shards of grief
ricocheting into nowhere
I can’t feel what remains of our collective conscience
when our cellular complicity subsumes the senses
when the foreground is a sinkhole
serenaded by solipsists
And in the background—
the cinders of American illusions
crackle and burn
self-immolating
Mirages
into which
our spirits evaporate
