Howls in the Desert Night

1. San Xavier Mission, US/Mexican Border
The Mexican version of Peterhof Palace
Rises out of the Southern Arizona Desert,
Its architecture a call-back to Russia
As is the bleakness surrounding
Mexico and Russia: global opposites.
But Russia had Stalin
And Mexico...Mexicans:
Almost as bad.
Isn't that why we try so hard to keep them out?

The beacon, the white dove--
The San Xavier Mission--
Calls the pilgrims to their Mecca,
Like America calls to Mexico.
Migrants saddle up in answer,
Begin their pilgrimage
To a more hopeful place.

Three crosses on a hill.
When Christ was crucified,
Two criminals were crucified with him.
The crosses on this hill,
Dead Mexicans in the desert--
If Christ returns with color,
He's doomed a second time.

Two lions guard the dusty journey trail,
The grave amongst the stones of Jerusalem,
All the desert a cemetery,
Where many a migrant hath perished
In their trek to freedom.

A pair of prairie dogs frolic in the hot dust,
Playful and unaware of the somber lion sentinels
And their sacred duties.

A melody echoes across the heat,
It's notes floating up the dust
To this monument.
If it weren't for the highway
In the distance,
The sneaker marks in the sand,
The green fields at my back,
And the sounds of a plane overhead,
I feel I could strip off my shoes
And my American skepticism
And wander the rocks
In search of the Christ.

But more than likely,
I would only find
Tattered, dehydrated migrants.
Perhaps it's the same thing anyway.

The church is dark,
As are those who seek its grace.
It has a tarnished beauty,
No less sacred for all its use,
But that I will not share.
What I find in a church is for my heart alone.
The secret is salvation.
Whisper it to the crosses on the mountain
Too far from heaven's ear,
And whisper it to the stones
On the earth beneath us:
Disciples of purpose,
Wandering the dirt,
Seeking the Word.

2. Johnson Camp, Apache Reservation
They dance in the darkness,
Stars overhead,
Moving to a heartbeat
And the sound of the earth moaning beneath their drums.

Chests painted white,
Bells at waist and knees,
Ringing with each step, each leap,
Headdresses like antlers rising above them.
They dance to celebrate
Blood, as it pools between a woman's legs.

Womanhood.
A strange thing.
Apaches dance in celebration of its power,
While a coyote takes power away
From the migrant women in his charge,
Celebrates something else between a woman's legs,
Hangs her garments on a tree,
Proof of his conquest.

The fire blazes around the Apaches,
They dance around it,
Faces with masks like executioners.
Blood is their domain.
A thrill of fear
Snaking its way up my spine.

These are warriors,
Regardless of kindness.
Throughout the day,
They may sit on their reservation
Smoking and drinking
The reasons they lost the war;
They may smile at strangers,
Laugh with the white folks,
Feed us and celebrate with us;
But in the night
With the scent of blood in the air,
They are warriors,
And answer to a more ancient law.

They feed the fire and sparks whoosh up
In a cloud of glittering flame,
And I remember
Why the white fears the dark so deeply.

3. Arivaca, US/Mexican border
Out southern neighbor,
Do not step on our yard.
The showy border fence,
14 feet high, 5 feet deep, wedged in solid concrete,
Ends after seven miles.
Migrants walk around and continue their trek.

The danger is not in hopping the fence
Nor in the gunhappy US cops patrolling.
The danger lies
In the fifty miles of desert hell--
Sand, heat, dirt, cactuses, no water,
A thousand ways to die,
But all it takes is one--
That must be wandered
Before salvation can be reached.

For Mexicans,
Arizona is Egypt,
But where the fuck is Moses
When you need him?

4. Border fence
Hold ethnicity out.
Keep it away from our children,
Only wasps are welcome here.
You cannot clean our toilets,
Mail us your tacos instead.

The desert is the same on both sides of the fence,
The earth doesn't care for borders.

Before the wall was a window,
Migrants threw rocks from the Mexican side
At border patrolmen:
The poetic justice of the desert,
Carried out by the future janitors
Of America.

They will find a way in.
They will creep in like cockroaches.
They will want rights.
They will want to be treated like human beings,
Like the slaves did.
Like everything else
We have ever futilely attempted
To force down in submission,
To eradicate.
The white fears the dark because it will not be supressed.
Step back,
Let the Spanish wolves run free.
It worked at Yellowstone.