She's In
The Book of Nogales

I'm all eyes you see
wherever wisdom goes
the parade follows
but in the wrong direction -
this ratio of angels
drives us mad.
A plain old drama
drowns the bedlam
with its fury, this
snake swallows it whole:
(Remember this?
Of course not.)
Nothing escapes
a point of view
at a checkpoint
where we wait
for indictments and polls,
that sacred ammunition
and those officious absolutions.
From the windows
cameras spot vendors
as they ply the ancient art
of bait and switch,
the carrot on a stick.
I'm sure of it.
Our trunk is only full
of statues and banks
but they don't believe it,
those types insist
on certificates and honey.
Those types don't know
much about bones
and even less about the sea.

In the shadows
hueras exchange
dirty looks for pesos,
treasure after
treasure, Catrinas
for thin-thin dimes.
It's a long way home
for that one -
her clothes tell
the thousand tales
of babies and begging,
the stories that never end
and we've heard them all before.
She's a whole
cartel in her papoos
and just another exodus
on the sole of her huarache
spelled novena, nueva, nuestros.