POETRY

By Gary English

Juarez tethers me like a balero
with a bridge instead of string. I tread
Stanton’s crammed path
over the near-water­less Rio Grande.
I could have walked its dehy­drat­ed bed.

Tanned leather’s weath­ered smell
infuses the mercado’s air. Piñatas,
penuche. Day of the Dead disguises,
candles coupled like an afterlife
mar­riage, entice tourists to a tienda.
Street vendors
make mari­achi marionetas
dance — ¡baila, baila! —
like I’ll never be able. Still
I hand over my pesos. I possess
a tangle of string, wooden legs, tiny
guitar. I’ll figure it out when I get home
… quizás.

I stop at a corner for Negra Modelo, risky
time for beer: La Linea y Los Aztecas,
Los Mex­i­cles y Artis­tas Asesinos —
and a hundred more gangs whose names
I can’t remem­ber — own the Juarez nights.
I’m a gabacho; I must leave. Windless
and weak, I pant on my bicycle up Scenic
past the painted white “A” on the Franklin
Moun­tains. Gabriel is with me, Sylvia and Arturo,
Melchor y Timo — but we never come here
togeth­er.

Now images rapid like a cartel’s AR-15s:
Sun Bowl, Sunland Park, Fort
Bliss, Chamizal, Texas Western wins it all 
in ’66. Nunchucks and knives
in the halls of Austin High. San Jacinto Plaza,
alli­ga­tors in central pond.
     (No one knows why gators in a desert town.)
Menudo written on a wall in letters four feet tall.
     No need. I can smell it four blocks back.
My garden of prickly pears, yuccas, barrel
cactus and pampa grass.

I know it’s a dream
     like I know the El Paso
     I knew is lost
     in desert dust:

A winding tum­ble­weed      thrown
     by West Texas wind. Still
     jumbled.      Still
     gone

This story orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 18.

Photo by Ivan Calderon.