In memory of Micah True, aka. Caballo Blanco,
who lived some months of each year in Mexico’s Copper Canyon
Give him the reins
to the ghost horse
and the guide will remove the straps
from its face and neck.
Then, they will cross the border together.
They will begin forgetting,
when walking through the city
of commuters with inventive ways
to carry worry.
They will forget the dollar
and the peso,
and thirst, for anything.
When roads disappear,
they will forget news, words,
and especially the task of asking
who they were.
The ghost horse,
his ribs and flanks will forget,
his white hide will forget
every boot heel,
wrong or right.
Together, they will breathe nightfall
with the Chihuahuan desert,
where sage soothes the sunset
as it strives behind mesquite branches,
and where wood fires in the canyon
gather Rarámuri faces
They will forget
to celebrate or mourn.
All the love they’ve known is in the pollen
of purple jacarandas,
and in the maize pots, filled
for those who have become their kin.
With thanks for thoughts on border-crossings derived from the play, De Camino al Ahorita, by Raúl Dorantes.