In awe, in admiration
of steaming asphalt as rubber
grinds its force on a nearby highway.
Ardor and zeal in distant mountain tops, a terrain
of human perseverance and a civil
union and cause for improvement. The streetlights
illuminate the way, hosting a finish line with
occulted handshakes and welcoming gestures.
100 pesos will cross you 889 miles worth of story telling
waters, of filthy Mexican feet that aren’t complacent. 3,762 feet
deep with murky futures and border realties.
One bedroom, one bath.
It’ll be 300 pesos for Martha who is accompanied by her two youngest children, the
oldest already playing at an El Paso park.
She clenches her youngest boy to her hip and the girl by the hand, referring to it
as game of hide and seek. Their pant legs are up to the knees, but not on bended knees.
Instead, knees that thrust through cold currents. 100 pesos a head, that’s $10 American
dollars a person, that’s $30 the coyotes get from Martha for herself and her two kids. $30
will guide her and her children though 3,762 feet and 889 miles. $30 will take
them away from home and take them home.
$30 she puts in the riverbank, leaving it to accumulate
hopes and aspirations. Her Mexican bank account in Juarez
depleted, deprived and empty. All her will and endeavors
are invested in this one riverbank, $30 worth.
The same amount that’ll give you the opportunity of obtaining
an education instead of an intangible luxury of a textbook.
$30 for paved roads and affordable meals. For human expansion
and solid roofs over one’s head. $30 invested in future generations
and their prosperity and a chance at life.
“Ya llegaron,” the coyote says.
“You are here.”
He signals ahead.
$30 will get you ahead.