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Roadside
Esteban Rodríguez
Mexico rises into view like a textbook description of a dead civilization;
the caliche billowing across the windshield as my mother pulls into a roadside
subtracts layers of durability6 off a building’s frame; how the city mirrors
the black-and-white photos of abandoned war zones; how a fence can lose
of unsuccessful bodies no one ever claims. Before we cross over, graze
the peripheries8 of those who haven’t tried their hand at an exodus—
the barefooted boys selling Chiclets, the old and toothless women seated
we weave, like we do every weekend, through rows of shoulder-high water
fountains,
yard,
each a variation of mud-brown and red, and as hot as stove-grates when I run
callused on her hands like the callused face of the old woman on a lawn chair
Mexican tongues. Behind them sits the woman’s Chevy, whitewashed15
and I recall those playground jokes about how in spite of the small space
find
inside
her truck, aware that even as my mother scans the worn-out price tags
of each pot, we aren’t going to buy a thing. And as they exchange a few nods
our shadows the way old women touch everything that isn’t theirs, feeling
the indifference21 with which we slip between her grip, how the sunlight cracks
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