Sanctuary

For Tony

I could not disengage my world from the rest of humanity. Wind chill factor 11° below. All night wind thrashes barechested trees like a West Texas tent evangelist hissing them on his knees, lisping sinnn . . . sinn . . . sinn . . . All night wind preaches. Old tool shed behind my house fist-cuffs itself to nail-loose tin, horse pasture gates clank their crimes, while neighing black stallions of rain stampede on the patio fleeing gunshots of thunder . . . . Miles south of here, nightscopes pick up human heat that green fuzz helicopter dash panels. A mother whispers, “Sssshhhh mejito, nomás poco más allá. Nomás poco más allá.” Dunes of playing-dead people jack rabbit under strobe lights and cutting whack/blades, “Ssshhh mejito. Sssshhhh.” Child whimpers and staggers in blinding dust and gnashing wind. Those not caught, scratch sand up to sleep against underbellies of roots and stones. Eventually Juanito comes to my door, sick from eating stucco chips— his meals scratched off walls of temporary shelters, and Enrique, who guzzled water at industrial pipes pouring green foam out at the El Paso/Juarez border, and Maria steaming with fever, face dark meteorite, whispers, “Where I come from, Señor Baca, a woman’s womb is a rock, and children born from me, drop like stones, to become dust under death squad’s boots.” And Juanito, “The came at midnight and took my brothers. I have never seen them since. Each judge’s tongue is a bleeding stub of death, and each lawyer’s finger a soft coffin nail.” And Enrique, “You can trust no one. Each crying person’s eye is a damp cellar where thieves and murderers sleep.” They have found refuge here at Black Mesa. The sun passes between our lives, as between two trees, one gray, one green, but side by side.