Por Las Tias de la Trenza

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 

into which
our spirits evaporate 

illustration of the border wall
Illustration by Mabel Weber

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