I Belong Here

There is no act of forgiveness,

only the redeeming light on

the shoulders dancing in

tall weeds, cigarettes gone

and the girls slapping free.

The tortilla cart burns against

the wall because Jesus called

my brother who was acquired

by whistling gangs of men

under the hanging arch.

There can be no night without

the wind on shoulders exhausted

by games and messages my brother

lost between the darkness and

the bridge into Juarez, Mexico,

where no crows caw because

the buildings are torn and

flashlights are narrow in

their beaming stumble,

my thoughts the last ones

on this side of the river,

my sudden happiness hidden

in celestial light without being

appalled at what I see, my ears

to the ground listening to weeds

overrun by boys who can’t spell

and are waiting for me without

knowing pilgrims are on the border.

Whatever kills them spares me

the journey to beg for purity

among unspoken Spanish

everyone fears in their greed.

The group doesn’t know it is

what the river stones teach,

though I can’t speak of them

because faith is prehistoric and

my brother is pursued by dust

storms that erase his footprints

across the back roads where he

loses his language of need.