Written by Diane Benavides Rios
I walked across the border
drunk with hollow dreams.
and lowriders all became mirages here.
Here-mujeres y hombres
dance among crumbling walls.
There- are candles,
little children crying,
There is a butterfly close to death.
And still I ran,
fields of horses,
rows of cotton,
streets of dust.
Payphones rang on the corners of the cement.
Then my feet stopped.
My hands laid on the sides of my thighs.
I stood there.
Looked up to the sun and mourned my breath.