Land
by Darrah de jour
Mexicans scattered along the drives
of old homes
with shards of wood
shattered windows
sharp enough to splinter the corneas of
wandering eyes
hands the color of cocoa butter
i spread along
my hips
after gaining then losing weight
in quick spurts
Saliva draining into the Vs of
their mouths
like a gutter draining
rain water
into a northern lake
or Ocean
We swear to protect
but dont.
Fertile lands,
like the body of the mikado
is the body of the Woman
is the body of the Mexican land miner
who if he got stuck down some hole
somewhere, and Bush were not there to
ignore him-
Would he really exist?
And Katrina comes and goes
and the wars come and go
but every morning,
on my way to work,
which I despise, that inconvenient 45 minute
straight ride up Victory Blvd or a crowded
highway
Littered with designer and not-so-desirable
cars with bumper stickers
proclaiming the rage of the common
modern man,
if there were such a galvanized one.
They could be swept up in the Santa Anas
or forklifted by a sneaky current
easing beneath their feet,
a pancake stuck to the pan,
extracted by the spatula of a storm
or an open wallet,
they could be the sex worker
with her voracious eyes,
her open heart,
and that thick skin
like mucous
that hardens around the once venerable
trove.
The diamond encrusted railing
up toward a Heaven they believe
so in,
Or else how, could they stand there
The bane of the road
like Indians
like Women
like Prostitutes selling the richest of goods
for slivers of silver.
wearing rosaries around their tanned necks,
and black tobaccer
stuck with pride, rigidity
Latin ego and anger and familial lines
straight as me
tight as a row of corn
into their tired cheek.
as disparate as
the heaven of a girls daydreams
that never die
but are disillusioned
by the failing of men
we raise to live
not love
for us.
like gods that discover fire
then set us on
Live it up,
past the Home Depot,
theyll be there tomorrow
if you need a hand, if you need a hand.