La Frontera

by CHRISTIAN WOODARD

              Walking, Chile Chico to Los Antiguos

We left our blind voices arguing
with the border guard               
to go on ahead, past
rusted cans        cactus & a statue          the virgin
facing east

Sun hung over the road:
a hot shovel                 a blacksnake
our words                    old glove leather

We left them
this morning now
it’s been noon for a century & still
they haven’t caught up
Shadowless mileposts, history a catclaw bush
Blood flat
as a dog at noon & everything we remember
loving shows teeth

Wait                we’ll split
halves of the creosote shade
Just over there, evening
lifts her wrists & yawns, poplars hedge over
orchards, a mare rubs her back through the leaves

Let’s open the last yellow bottle
when our voices arrive & the land
ahead goes damp, corrugated & every field
makes space for
a candle          a wasp a spade          a morning
that comes anyway, after all the dead
gaps                 between breaths