She has shifty feet, she
is a hoarse diesel motor that
drags us along the inexorable road, the
promised land flicking its coyote tail
in front of our noses.
Virgen and saints alike cling
to our soggy chests as we worship
snapshots of mothers, wives, daughters.
For what are we but one half
of a circulating heart?
Even those of us who pass
the border -those who learn to
breathe fire or steal scant sips of
serendipity- walk with the weight
of her sand in our shoes.
And yet, the limping echo
in our blood still urges
us toward a new