Crossing the border between one quintana and the next
We move from the wild to the obscene
Of private wetlands and forestry, mortar and concrete
Up against the golden River of Silver shoreline, a breathing carcinogen
It funnels the borderland between our place and the sun.
There’s a Starbucks now, north of the railway line
Where los Americanos live. Next door to
The disenfranchised burnt-down burgería.
I remember our night-enduring marches there,
All 400 meters of them. This was agony.
In Martinez live the dogs, San Isidro, the birds, in La Lucila, gasoline, lavender, bananas.
The condors would eat it up, virgin feral creatures.
They just want to play.
The artist’s tree in the foyer has since died.
Alguien forgot to water it.
It was either that or the class goldfish.
