Forty-three Miles North of Soul
Shucked by his coyoté
he dares the desert
prickly pear and knife-edged grasses
ocotillo spines pinch pieces
from thinning khaki trousers.
He scratched for the trip
with a guide
greed and dreams high-fived
illegal entry, the last illusion.
Crinkled eyes burned by sun
branded by timeworn laughter
he wears optimism
a crown twice the size
of his ubiquitous cowboy hat.
On the promised side
he passes potters’ fields
planted in dust drowned rows
tidier than life, where death
is marked by a white rugged cross
no olvidado, not forgotten.
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