No se buiga, keep moving!

Because I’m lonely and
swimming and she tells me I matter.

She bleeds on the blackberry vine and
repeats my perfections until I’m pink and drunk.

I roll her on her hip until the snoring slows
and dive into my phone for anyone but her.

When she speaks, she speaks of railroad tracks
laid by Mexican laborers throughout the corn belt.

I hear tracks churn in Kennebunk where another
howled herself hoarse, hypomanic running by boxcars.

Or another I try to meet halfway between
Denver and Vail to desperately apologize and fuck.

No se buiga, keep moving!

Mexican immigrants fled north. Their barrios still
dot cold train tracks I skip over every dawn I leave her.

Another tells me about another who interlaced their fingers
when she cracked an axle

on the interstate and couldn’t afford a tow,
and another who looks like the other with a rib tattoo,

freckled shoulders and thighs. In Ma’s home calling another
my muse as I send the same love song to her and another

and my mother awaits his Parkinson’s
diagnosis and another details his life insurance policy.

No se buiga, keep moving!