Illegal

1.

She shares a room

with eight strangers.

None of them know

where to buy money grams.

Her face flushes

at the grocery store,

but she still looks straight

into my eyes and asks:

Can I walk there?

Which way is it?

2.

Jobs are scarce,

so he eats what he finds

in dumpsters near

the house, squats on a vacant

lot that floods in autumn. 

He doesn’t say it,

but he’s scared of fever.

Knows that if he dies,

back home, Juan will stop by

the bar and flick quarters

in the jukebox.

Jose will tell dirty jokes

at his wake until four

in the morning, while Pedro

recounts the story

of the irate husband

shooting at his naked butt

flying over the fence.

But here, he doesn’t have

a name, he’s constantly

cold and unnoticed.

3.

She makes it difficult
to ignore the wet clothes
on a man’s back
as he wanders into la migra’s
office for a 24-hour stay,
or a free jet ride home.

She’s too alarmed to remember
the two daughters left behind.

Umbrellas keep her in the shade
while officers bring tamarind flavored
snowballs to douse her dehydration.

They wick the sweat off her breast,
keep her armpits from staining,
stinking the robe.

Tomorrow she’ll rattle all this away
like cows shake off flies.

© Sergio A. Ortiz 10/19/09