Asylum

So many must think…

As day breaks,
might it be time?

From your shack,
or whatever other cover
you’ve hidden yourself
away from the threat of death,
you slip away on foot,
the t-shirt on your back,
a piece of paper with a relative’s name
in case something happens to you,
wearing boots,
no belongings,
save a topo map.

Just you and your babe in arms.

Tapachula’s streets and back alleys
are empty with only
cats and rats
having their sunrise duel.

Hours pass.

Miles mount.

Thirst and hunger pursue.

Jungles behind.

Deserts ahead.

A pause in a ghost town cemetery offers respite,
as hands gripping baby and flower containers,
hold yesterday’s rainfall,
its fetid taste welcome to exhaustion’s parched throats.

A long-ago deserted church,
its rickety door hanging on rusty hinge,
birds in the bell tower perched stoic, silent.

To enter,
to rest in the pew,
or wander into the dried-up cornfield,
swap sweat-caked clothes
for sun-bleached scarecrow garb,
stretch out on the heat-baked husks,
hold baby tight, try to smile,
stare at the sky and have a long talk with…

No, not him.
That hasn’t worked out too well, so far.

Better off giving clouds some credit
for help with the sun so far,
and hopefully the many tomorrows ahead.

A look at the map reveals only
eight hundred miles to the border.

Asylum.