Standing here along the river,
I want to jump
without thinking, into the green
muddy water.
My white feet, clean and smooth,
stand firmly at the bank.
And I’m afraid to dive
I want to jump
without thinking, into the green
muddy water.
My white feet, clean and smooth,
stand firmly at the bank.
And I’m afraid to dive
deep and whole into this flowing
language. Afraid my tongue will stumble.
Afraid my accent is too thick
and I will only sink.
This border does not belong
to me.
This border belongs to those
who aren’t afraid
of her muddy waters,
the spines of nopal,
and the burn of the comal.
This border belongs to hands
that reach into her dusty earth
with bent backs and browning necks,
burnt and sweaty.
This border belongs to feet
rough and dusty, to people
with labored sighs.
This border belongs to those
with roots like mesquites—roots that dig
deep into the soil,
roots that come back
even when plucked
and tossed aside,
bending in the wind on either side
of the Rio Grande.
No, this valley does not belong to me
Here, standing and afraid
to baptize myself in her muddy waters.
