The desert during monsoon is greener,
like wetback hope,
how it overcomes acacia thorns
and trails through nettle,
how migrant feet outrun flash floods
through mosquito canyons,
how their ankles roll on rocks
and jump back up…
like cool tears from blisters.
Monsoon green shades resident quail,
quail and timorous rabbit.
Its blooming calls through corridors
to orange butterflies, purple birds,
to people who follow on foot:
Mesoamerica in motion,
leaving to live.
When desert ocotillo forests yellow
and harvest moons ripen over orchards,
armies of ladders lean against trees,
waiting, chink-chinking change,
calling, calling every year across borders.
The irritable autumn wasps graze
on the affordable harvest,
a larceny and a shame,
around so many heavy Northern tables.