Night, Las Cruces
the neighborhood smelled like smoked chile on a nearly dry pan, and the adobe buildings felt cool and rough with the moon.
walking home, after two Tecates at a bar, shadow mixed with that of the agave that lined the street.
the bartender played ranchera over the muted television that played footage of the president’s open mouth, splattering patrons with red dirt and the mud that makes up most of the Rio Grande.
there’s something to be said about the line in the lit up valley that goes dark. there’s something to be said about the checkpoint guards that wave certain people through.
two halves that feed their children hatch green chiles. two halves waiting for a better morning.
the bar smelled like cologne and spices and tequila and the music was very loud. colorful embroidered blouses and overalls lined up together in a row. the night drips like water from a spout in the street, perfectly measured, waiting
for the next boom of newspaper headlines and political commentators and the anger they spew over a red line in the dirt. for more children to die
as the blue adobe buildings cool under the moon.