By the end

there will be nothing
of us above the border
but tallow on the burial stones
and the desiccated marigolds.

How fat the sharp-beaked
vultures grow on our backs
armoured by suffering.

Our daughters lay along the walks
or float in the streams smelling
sweet of rot, as babies sometimes do.

Our son's expressions wither into ours.

Some of us will go further south,
rather than bear the humiliations
of Protestants who yank
the head from the Virgin.

Others will stay with the gringos
who believe the distances between
brothers can be measured by shades.

(c) Vievee Francis, Blue Tail Fly