Unaccompanied - Javier Zamora

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      stain you with pollen. Every day cops and gangsters pick at you

      with their metallic beaks, and presidents, guilty.

      Dad swears he’ll never return, Mom wants to see her mom,

      and in the news: black bags, more and more of us leave.

      Parents say: don’t go; you have tattoos. It’s the law; you don’t know

      what law means there. ¿But what do they know? We don’t

      have greencards. Grandparents say: nothing happens here.

      Cousin says: here, it’s worse. Don’t come, you could be. . .

      Stupid Salvador, you see our black bags, our empty homes,

      our fear to say: the war has never stopped, and still you lie

      and say: I’m fine, I’m fine, but if I don’t brush Abuelita’s hair,

      wash her pots and pans, I cry. Tonight, how I wish

      you made it easier to love you, Salvador. Make it easier

      to never have to risk our lives.

       On a Dirt Road outside Oaxaca

      The Mexican never said how long.

      ¿How long? Not long. ¿How much?

      Not much. Never told us we’d hide in vans like matchsticks.

      In our town, we’d never known Mexicans

      besides the women and men in soap operas,

      so in our heads, we played the fence,

      the San Ysidro McDonald’s, a quick run, a van.

      Not long, not long at all. In Oaxaca,

      a small brown lizard licks horchata from my hand —

      we’re friends, we pick names for each other.

      Hola Paula. Hola Javier, she says.

      We play the fence, a quick run, the van. . .

      ¿How long? Not long. On the dirt,

      our knees tell truths to the cops’ front-sights and barrels.

      ¿How much? Not much.

      We’d never known Mexicans besides Chente,

      Chavela Vargas. We’re on the dirt

      like dogs showing nipples

      to offspring, it’s not spring,

      and we’re going to where there is spring,

      we say it’s gonna be alright,

      it’s gonna be just fine —

      my hands play with Paula.

       Cassette Tape

      A

      To cross México we’re packed in boats

      twenty aboard, eighteen hours straight to Oaxaca.

      Vomit and gasoline keep us up. At 5 a.m.

      we get to shore, we run to the trucks, cops

      rob us down the road — without handcuffs,

      our guide gets in their Ford and we know

      it’s all been planned. Not one peso left

      so we get desperate — Diosito, forgive us

      for hiding in trailers. We sleep in Nogales till

      our third try when finally I meet Papá Javi.

      »

      Mamá, you left me. Papá, you left me.

      Abuelos, I left you. Tías, I left you.

      Cousins, I’m here. Cousins, I left you.

      Tías, welcome. Abuelos, we’ll be back soon.

      Mamá, let’s return. Papá ¿por qué?

      Mamá, marry for papers. Papá, marry for papers.

      Tías, abuelos, cousins, be careful.

      I won’t marry for papers. I might marry for papers.

      I won’t be back soon. I can’t vote anywhere,

      I will etch visas on toilet paper and throw them from a lighthouse.

      «

      When I saw the coyote —

      I didn’t want to go

      but parents had already paid.

      I want to pour their sweat,

      each step they took,

      and braid a rope.

      I want that cord

      to swing us back to our terracota roof.

      No, I wanted to sleep

      in my parents’ apartment.

      B

       You don’t need more than food,

       a roof, and clothes on your back.

      I’d add Mom’s warmth, the need

      for war to stop. Too many dead

      cops, too many tattooed dead.

      ¿Does my country need more of us

      to flee with nothing but a bag?

      Corrupt cops shoot “gangsters”

      from armored cars. Javiercito,

      parents say, we’ll send for you soon.

      »

      Last night, Mom wanted to listen to “Lulu’s Mother,”

      a song she plays for the baby she babysits.

      I don’t know why this song gets to me, she said, then:

      “Ahhhh Lu-lu-lu-lu / don’t you cry / Mom-ma won’t go / a-way /

      Ahhhh Lu-lu-lu-lu / don’t you cry / Pop-pa won’t go / a-way. . .”

      It’s mostly other nannies in the class; it’s supposed to help

      with the babies’ speech development, she says, mijo,

       sorry for leaving. I wish I could’ve taken you to music classes.

      She reached over, crying. Mom, you can sing to me now,

      was all I could say, you can sing to me now.

       To President-Elect

      There’s no fence, there’s a tunnel, there’s a hole in the wall, yes, you think right now ¿no one’s running? Then who is it that sweats and shits their shit there for the cactus. We craved water; our piss turned the brightest yellow — I am not the only nine-year-old who has slipped my backpack under the ranchers’ fences. I’m still in that van that picked us up from “Devil’s Highway.” The white van honked three times, honks heard by German shepherds, helicopters, Migra trucks. I don’t know where the drybacks are who ran with dogs chasing after them. Correction: I do know. At night, they return to say sobreviviste bicho, sobreviviste

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