(after the drawings La Jodida, Las Huesos, and La Cargona by Erik Ricardo de Luna Genel)

We are bent from the loads we’ve carried
strapped to our bony backs—sacks
of maíz, hierbas, frijoles; bundles
of firewood; jerry jugs of precious agua.
Each Saturday, we haul tall stacks
of caged birds to the mercado to sell
their captive songs—their laments,
our heaviest burden.

Hobble a mile in our ragged huaraches,
holes in their tire-tread soles. Follow
us to the village of whispers
where the only gritos belong to the wind,
empty doorways grown over with weeds,
our men’s dusty boots waiting years
for their return. Look into the cenotes
of our eyes. You’ll find no fish,
no flores, no monedas. Only sacrifices
with their mouths full of mud,
and the dread of our itchy grins.

Then tell us you would never risk
wrapping your little lamb in a rebozo,
grabbing your withered staff, and heading
north--devil sun, scorpion, migra
be damned. You’d fly for the birds
whose latches you could not unlock.
You’d fly so the only satchel your daughter
hoists on her shoulders is heavy
with libros, lapices y sueños. You’d fly
never believing they would wrest her
from your back and lock her in a cage.