I walked into a dream of Mexico,
Full of flavor and texture
As the cannons of fiesta
Aroused me from my sleep at six.
My terrace was full of flowers
In what was winter for me,
And even the wind felt full,
Lush,
Sounds, and sights, and language,
So foreign in the early morn.

It is a long road
From Guadalajara to Nuevo Laredo,
The road not marked,
And the citizenry ill-equipped to guide you;
Desert and mountains,
And roadblocks with heavily armed guards.
Don’t drink the water in Mexico,
And don’t get lost,
Lest your surreal journey become real,
As you become a victim of the road.

I grieved over the poverty in Mexico,
With my brother’s remains in the trunk,
So disarming to see mothers without hope,
Watching lazily as their children play,
And knowing,
That they would be as pitiable as themselves,
And their father’s fathers before them.
But children don’t know what it is to be poor,
As long as there is food on the table,
And companions to join them in the dirt;
This, the blessing of a compassionate God,
Who knows the lessons we most need.

In Mexico, the road runs through a barren land,
But just when you think that you are alone,
There stands a sentry by it,
Watching the sky in silence
While garbed in the raiment of a pauper;
No visible trace of how he arrived,
No suggestion that he will ever leave,
Just the blank stare of a man
Who can bear the vision no longer,
Lest it be the arrival of a saintly visage,
Prepared to vanquish the pain of a thousand days.

And so…
The memory of Mexico haunts me;
No beaches, no sombreros,
No drunken memories of a Mariachi love song,
But I see the dust and destitution,
Skin pulled tight over cheekbones
Which offer a reluctant smile.
This is not the Mexico you see on billboards,
Or the photos of your neighbor’s trip;
This is reality below the border:
Poverty,
Apathy,
Dreams lost in the oppressive heat,
But above it all are the eyes of the children,
The soulful surrender of the young,
And these will be my memories of the road -
In Mexico.