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
Alejandro is faster than I.
caught. hung upon
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.
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
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
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
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.