the desert.

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

Midnight Mountaineering/Montañismo de medianoche- a poem in two languages


She is a peak in the hollow, faint
from the dive in her skirts.

Apart from the moon and the
sun, who take shifts with starry
flocks and then cloudy ones,
there is only sky.

An exiled howl.

The girl lowers the sky from a
ledge and swallows it, tasting
the infinite voices of black and
blue, black and blue.

Like a call from the grave.
Like a mother’s song.

Her eyes overflow with
the duo of color, unveiling
all the other peaks.


Ella es un pico en el vacío, mareada
por el clavado de sus faldas.

Aparte del sol y la
luna, turnándose con rebaños
nublados y luego unos estrellados,
sólo hay cielo.

Un aullido desterrado.

La niña baja el cielo de una
repisa y se lo traga, saboreando
las infinitas voces de negro y
azul, negro y azul.

Como una llamada de la tumba.
Como el canto de la madre.

Sus ojos se desbordan del duo
de color, desvelando
todos los otros picos.

A Trip


“A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike.
And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion
are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle
that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”
-John Steinbeck

We have cut her open, forging
long and winding wounds of asphalt.

We deem ourselves warriors, devouring
her prize innards, ravaging her verdant
lungs, suckling from her aqueous veins,
taking in her life force as our own.

Mile after mile we gorge on her
sprawling vigor, until grains of sand
begin to crunch between our teeth.

Because she too is mortal.

A desert lies low in her womb.
The faces of her progeny are dreamed
in rock and hover in clouds of dust.

Now we feel her hot gaze upon us.
A humble glow stains our cheeks.