Climbing Walls

I have watched Alejandro spiderman over the wall. I am

climbing up too. and I over. my ribs hurt. footprints left. I stumble in

them. and ran towards wide      expanse. but this earth is booby-trapped. the

knives of  decorative barb snaps. at

saphenous veins.

Alejandro is faster than I.


caught.         hung upon

                                               trip wire.

                          a thrashing prey.


ripping hoodie. grabbing back onto soapy non-grip freedom.  another wire rips out

bigger chunk of my calf. paroxysm has to be swallowed. Like the sand.

Mary. mother of jesus.

I kiss talisman. swallowing

lumps in my throat. undigested shrapnel  cutting wider roads to my stomach.

families back home. their prayers. for me limping to jump                 across the moats. I cry. a

stupid boy. I stop crying. I see Alejandro. I break the damn cotton thread.

I throw things off my back.   everything. gotta catch up with Alejandro.



I drop.










like vaca shit.

crawling like soldiers on YouTube.              across.

spitting out dust.  swallowing some. taste like cactus. like manure.

but mud hut-boy gotta keep moving                across


                                                                                                    hiding again.

Lady Liberty.  a GIANT lady. I bet she’s

like Mother Teresa.

Upper new York bay. uncle describes. he drives cab. knows all 50 states. he

says they are really 50 different  countries. but one hate for dirt people.

he’s supposed to pick me up. at drop spot.


                                                                                                            I lay still. I am opossum.

the moonless black night is back. quarterbacking

into cactus. out of cactus. under underbrush. out

of underbrush.

uncle says a man can make a living over                   here.

my heart thumps against the hot sand. Ignore pain. I. mud-boy. It is what it is.

damn, noisy knapsack. village food for uncle and some other shit that he likes.

I have to be quiet……shit.


                                                                                                                    keep still. dirt boy.

you are underbrush. underbrush becomes you.

quiet. like you. pretty much. dead. quiet.


                                                                                                          it swings over to the east.

I run. west. left leg is still bleeding. Alejandro is gone.

I am now    ( in )

I am now home health aide.

wiping nose.  wiping butts. sponging backs. washing feet of

border guard memory-loss old folks. and I cut lawns. their

dog shit splashing my goggles. splashing  in my mouth.

my family is eating more regular now. my little daughter. Juana

now going to school. I cry.

I am happy. but

I  can’t be happy.

I miss them.

I miss my home.

I am not apocalyptic

demographic change.

Eaton Jackson is a Jamaican, naturalized US citizen. He has been writing all of his adult life. Inspired by an undying desire to produce publishable works, he considers himself still on the learning curve. His writings have appeared in Scarlet Leaf Review, River Poet, The New Verse, and other publications. Eaton’s dream is to be read as a credible writer.

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