alejandra
guadalupe

I come from the corner where dreams rebound,

gate to the grandest dream.

Martyrs, murderers, saints,

they march in a file,

they march to the gate.

Flanked by peace and steel and blood,

by tide, by mountain,

they march in pursuit of the dream. 

​

They jam against the fence face-first

and their lament echoes, bounces

through the valley of matorral,

orphans of dignity

bellowing for their mother's womb. 

​

The border embraces her children,

the corner, the gate, the fence,

martyrs, murderers, saints.

They march in a single file,

chanting, pleading

to be chosen by fate.