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meeting ends
He would drink like his brothers
shooting at cans and talking big, big,
if it wasn't for the money and the trembling
behind Anita's apron.
Instead his car trots to work
snapping up roadkill
the bumper proclaiming he loves Jesus
that he loves Puerto Rico.
Anita has been sleeping with the moon again
climbing the night blooming tongues of the mute
to doze in soft light
She talks to no one.
I fear that she is lost to us
just one summer after her sister died
on the tracks of illegal immigration
trying to sleep away from the snakes
moving towards San Antonio
under train.
Anita has left, her weathered hands grinding
the corn.
Her eyes distant velvet.
Her children running wild
on the dark crescents below her eyes.
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