The Men in Saguaro Suits

Fernando Pérez

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.

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