Beloved Mother

What I want to write

is that I am

and I can not stop being

I want to give back everything you have given me, mother.

And thanks to you I am far away again in New York

But I'll be fine. Do not worry

A poem for you, mother

is the least I can do

turning my love into words.

Here's a bit of me and you

It rained in your day today

for you mother. I am ashamed

I can not give you more.

I would catch a milky moon

consuming the mantle of the blind

that maternal moon.

How is it that I can not love

as does a mother with her breasts?

Despite the distance, although I was

dizzy in the Caribbean. Love

that nobody pronounces, love,

nor can be written twice

Three is too much although you know what I mean

I'm already far away again from R-o-m-a.

I wonder the origin

of good and evil

I wonder the origin of my residence on earth

and all of you, all of them

The wonderful story of my father when he met you

and you made love and I was born

You slept atop the sheets in 1981 by the Lopez Mateos

or the tenth of May, for I was born

9 months later in February 1982.

To Live. Mother

life in which there is an end

life in which we must try.

The pink house in which you were born

then, Arroyo de Encinos, your paradise

Those hands that fed mouths

those hands that washed away years

those hands that caressed

those hands that smiled at dreams

and they worked hard

in the mini supermarket named "Strawberries"

near Fovissste Chamizal.

Here is the firstborn of all

he inherited all your evils

but nothing bad happened.

I have improved a lot

Here is the barefoot corridor. Your dreamer:

What I miss of Ciudad Juarez, is

you, my dear mother.

Decolonial Inventory: Impressionism to indocumentados

3 elegant women on

the boat painted by Monet;

The impressionism to

the natural philosophy

The inaccessible cosmos is always

a chaotic phenomenon

The exhausts and

the caprice; ignores

national boundaries

The militarized border

The imperial consciousness

The plethora and

the starvation; give us

a green card

The underprivileged and

the gorgeous;

The building of

a higher wall, without consent, right before us

The helpless and

the hurtful;

The beauty and

the beast; usually they don’t dance together

The photography and

the modernist art (I mix them randomly)

The son and

the contaminated environment; going to his father’s

The clean and

the dirty; in that dirty water

The deported and

the tourist;

gaps between two worlds

The sorrows and

the happily ignorant;

they never laugh together

The U.S. citizen and

the alien; but not perceived as

fallen angels

The criminal and

the respectable;

one will drown in agony

The brown and

the white; pasted into this

collage of watercolor.

The undocumented immigrants crossing

the river.

The Blueprint of the Land

There is no river

but only sand

sand and no river

in the borderlands

There is no river

but only sand

sand and no river

it’s a fantasyland

There is no river

but only sand

sand and no river

in my motherland

There is no river

but only sand

sand and no river

like in Babylon

There is no river

but only sand

sand and no river

but only drugs, guns

and contraband

There is no river

but only sand

sand and no river

but only burritos, narcos

running cheap errands

There is no river

but only sand

sand and no river

but only

a militarized land

There is no river

but only sand

sand and no river

but only maquiladoras;

supply and demand

There is no river

but only sand

sand and no river

but only women

buried in the sand.