but it was not the night that stole you,
night wrapped warm around forehead and under your arms,
it was men whose shadows have climbed into their hearts.

Jalisco verde, a childhood in seabreeze
spent naming clouds: libélula, golondrina. Then older,
to the north, to work. But it was not the night that stole you.

The face of Mamá argued with itself, tears over smile.
Papá, moustache black and words: “bye, cuidate mucho,
there are men who have swallowed their own shadows.”

El Norte means hope and hope is a four-letter word
spoken between bleeding fingers, between shifts. Then
the night stole the day and you waited

for the bus, thick footsteps in sand behind you.
Men whistled and called. Then their fingers tore,
their shadows swollen inside you.

It is said the longest night births the most beautiful sun.
You, far away in wind. May it never be said that
it was the night that stole you,
for it was men who still walk wearing badges but cast no shadow.

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