A pipe pierces
the channel
in half slices
 
with its narrow slit
not of water, but mud
from the river that is not a river
 
it forks then spills
at the border
In the hills,
crane threads hang
skeletons of buildings
amidst
those that lie
clustered  creeping
 
We arrive at la linea
  tin passengers
we slither
through yelling horns
rubber
treads
over oil puddles
piss mirages
rainbows of spit.
 
A white  number  flickers
 on the black screen
 
  minutes overheat into hours
 
“Güerita,” the vendors call,
get for Abuelita’s dining room
 
the green card holder’s shop
 
lacquered clay in busts
of Obrador
of Trump
The Three Little Pigs
 
Division of
exchange rate from peso to dollar
 
as in before
(the pre-Columbian gold doubloon).
 
El Niño becomes a torrent
drags, spills,
drowned objects
from houses,
 
bursting down into El Hoyo
 
draws skulls of knotted hair.
 
When it spills
Tihuan, place beside the water
 
its cliffs
 
molder over the waves
 
they bury
Kumeyaay kichas
the rancheria
their brothels
tits with fallen stars
instead of nipples
The current
has been carving
these mud columns for centuries
 
the dizzying sun
still burnishes backs
stooped over
sunflower crops,
seeds thirsting
as harvest seasons pass

 


* El Hoyo is a neighborhood in Tijuana (translates to “The Hole”) that is in a land basin.