Flight
Posted Mar 18 2006
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As I run, images of 
my people -la raza-
flood my mind;
sweat and vapor
cloud the air behind me.
Shards of glass and rock
bejewel the concrete,
ice-crunch under my soles;
asphalt of the street
an infinite path of
obsidian crystals.
Just between the wind
and my stride
are memories of suffering.
A girl sprints;
her mother cries out
to keep running,
running past the floating gardens
(orchids and hydrangeas trampled),
past the market
(vegetables and clay pots overturned);
run past everything until
you no longer hear the dogs,
the men;
smell the smoke.
Heart thick with fear.
Blood gone cold;
fingertips tingling as if
pricked by quills.
An old man hobbles
behind the mesquite tree,
craggy nails scraping bark.
He gasps between broken prayers?
Virgen, let the Rangers ride past;
let them forget about
hanging another man
tonight.
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