The Acentos Review

Fuga: Take Flight 

I can tell you what I’m not wearing.
I’m not wearing the hand carved cedar rosary
gifted to me by my mother on my twelfth birthday.

When I reach up to grab from my neck a prayer bead
to roll between my fingers, I find nothing but my sweaty collarbone.

I know then I will be caught and deported.

I nervously rummage through my jean pockets
nearly melted from the desert sun, rummage
through my breast pocket marinated in dirt.
Sweat forms small blisters of lodo on my chest.

I want to Holy Mary my mother’s rosary back into existence.

My prayers fall around me like bright marbles of misfortune
immediately giving me away. 

         You!
The border patrol points me out from between the brush.
         Come here!
I run from him hard and fast.

My sister is on the other side of the border.

My legs tighten. I continue to gallop forward.
Sin parar. I don’t stop.
I imagine the gun draw.
Tears, like rivers, carve their way down my face
through skin and earth.

A shot is fired.
There is a tightening in my chest.

My tattered fear hangs on the barbed wire. I dive underneath.

My throat becomes a hollow conduit. I gasp for air.  
I hear la migra’s footsteps behind me. Another shot fired.
Dirt begins to cut my eyes.  My chest tightens. My knees buckle.

My entire body lunges forward. My hands reach toward the sky.

My face hits the dirt with such force that rocks lodge themselves
in my mouth and break my teeth. I cannot move.
The eagle lets out a cry that reminds me of our old house in San Antonio.
Al otro lado. Where we were Americans.

The warmth in my chest mangles me. I begin to reason that I will not survive.
The border patrol’s knee plants itself near my head. His voice inaudible.
His shadow smothers me. My vision politely excuses himself.

The air around me swells with the absence of sound.