tears. gashes. open sores, oozing blackness and misery. light fluids on darker soil, pearls of moisture on sleek skin.
wounds that will never heal. scars that trace a landscape that is ever-dry, where a sea of tequila cannot drown the parched cracks, fill them with anything but sharp, deepening shadows.
heat, scorching. bare fists hammering against tender membranes, echoing and resounding, filling
each and every hollow space with fumes that lick and steam and burn. fire and flame, just beneath the surface, threatening to burst through the fingernail scratches, kindled with each and
every gust of dry wind.
he is a son of Mexico. the country lies within him, and he, in turn, is forever chained to the slow and steady rhythm of its beating heart.