Emigrar

They climb in a flesh canoe
for the maquiladoras to stab their
pipes into and carry them down river,
where the locals suck their soap refuse
and haze like hash,
burning out-of-season mangoes,
hard-skinned and bitter.  They hack thin spit
that runs along street curbs into drains
beside the roundworm water
and then disappears in the dry Rio Grande
where even bones evaporate-
caught, sand-handed, by border police.
They climb in a flesh canoe
with babies swaddled on their
cigarette-pack shoulder pads,
and dip their oars silently in the sand.
Their legs ripple with the
effort of remaining water.
Goodnight, they tell Juarez,
and don't look on in anger.