my parents pose in black & white
in a styleline convertible
their saturday drive to juarez
for tequila
& cheap newports
the place is the same
just 60 years older. peeled paint
& american factories
blight what was spoiled already
in digital color
a man spits tobacco juice
dark as liver failure piss
near my shoes, says
i’m less afraid of gangs
than police or army,
they have better guns
but that same swagger. be careful
of the eyes you meet.
my mother’s carved mexican
a souvenir, a reminder of how
she learned broken spanish
spiced with tequila, but that
was her juarez,
not this crime scene now.
he balances on my palm
neckless,
his head tilted up
& mouth stretched
to hold toothpicks
in a bristled scream
the army guns are better
says the spitter
& their colors more muted
but they all wear the same stink–
metal & blood
lipsticked on the wall
tattooed on skin. a haloed saint
weeps between the shoulder blades
of a sniper.
there are as many churches
as bars here, but how
will we worship
in juarez? humility is easy
this close to dirt, but
not faith. prayer
this breath of hands
fanned against plaster roughness
or cracked concrete
keep lying down.
if you kneel you die.