To the President-Elect

There’s no fence, there’s a tunnel, there’s a hole in the wall, yes,

you think right now ¿no one’s running? Correction: the drybacks

sweat, shadow, shit their shit there for the cactus. We craved
water;

our piss turned the brightest yellow—I am not the only nine-
year-old

that has slipped my backpack under the rancher’s fences. I’m still

in that van that picked us up from “Devil’s Highway.” The white
van

honked three times, honks heard by German shepherds,
helicopters,

Migra trucks. I still don’t know where the drybacks are that
ran deep

with dogs chasing after them. But I do know, at night they return

and say sobreviviste bicho, sobreviviste carnal. Yes, we
over-lived.