The Men in Saguaro Suits
In the open field, all men talk at once
about guilt. This is a historical feud.
The man with a white tilt slit my
uncle’s throat for singing boleros outside
an open window. Down in the Barrio de
España, the draft, his voice once alto
with the moon. One man two man
that man four. Sons leave their father’s
home. Jealousy is a puncture wound
stretched into a smile. No more sons.
That was the year the flood took all
the women’s clothes. The washing rocks,
the tall grass where Balvina learned
the skip of stones —
Hello railroad smoke
Dancing through the open window.
Open border cross.about the author