Immigrants

Immigrants

 

Chunk-slab plaster, chunk-slab plaster, plaster-chunk

Grape-juice rottened, hardened heaving throats; we

alternate sour stomachs down the crooked path.

Communal voyages reiterate our state.

 

Slight-dry mouths, sunken drawls, brawling

Blood; sustain our Sorrow-Full-life. Nothing,

Nothing compares to wind-blown hair, blown south.

 

Nobody dare cares to box-car travel,

oil-growl, car-handle, down the interstate 5.

 

2004. By Jessica Rae Cortez.

Jessica Cortez