Over 2,000 Miles from the Border & No Concordance
Dad recalls the afternoon, the man
called to say the fee for my import
had raised. Then, dispel the thought
of guarantees. Then remind him all
polleros worked like that:
nothing personal, just business.
……………………… It was 1997.
……………………… Business was good.
In those days, dad paid
to ride the train beneath
the East River with tokens;
the soles of his feet grew thick.
Beneath the elevated rails,
pockmarked boys hocked phony
Socials. At the street carts, men
would wolf cordero down so fast
sometimes they’d swallow tin foil.
……………………… It was 1997.
……………………… Dad recalls
the familiar faces: albañiles
from Chiapas; electricians
from Guerrero; an arthritic
Oaxaqueño who peddled
miniature baseballs, neon
screwdrivers, the occasional
rumor of silverfish infestations;
of extramarital affairs;
the woman from India who paid
cien pesos al mes to sleep
on a kitchen table.
……………………… It was 1997.
……………………… Business was good
in New York. In the summer
before I arrived, Dad heard
of a raid. Upon discovering
62 indentured Mexicans, all
deaf-mutes, shoehorned
into a 4-bedroom apartment,
detectives remarked “The children
are in good condition, quite
charming.” The Red Cross brought
provisions. No arrests were made.
……………………… It was 1997.
……………………… At the precinct,
brought in for questioning,
62 sets of hands signed
furiously. Omitted from reports
was their first attempt
for help: a note
scribbled en español, folded
then hand-delivered
to the precinct. It was signed:
“I hope you have time
……………………… to read this.”
by Ricardo Hernandez
from Muzzle Magazine