Rigorous
Volume Five, Issue 2



What if I came back
               to you in a subtle way?

Max Tyrone Lozano


A single thread of spider’s web
broken by your passage;
             you advance
loose change in your jeans—
$2.27
and you’re tired of America
             blanching your skin
by the inside pocket of your purse,
             stealing your chiclets
                          you crossed with.
There are no longer enough
for the children in your
             invisible
             perpetual
             custody.

The Refuge is overgrown,
like your hair a millenia ago.
Leaves assume the contour
             of your breath.
You are alone
             advancing into the trees.
A lizard witnesses you
break the proscenium arch.
Blades of grass applaud
             as you crush them
                          barefoot.

Second impression of the Rio met
             with a line of red
running down your leg.
Tezcatlipoca winces with
             dried moth wings,
dancing across the river bank:
“Refuge ends here,”
and he disappears.

The Rio gurgles with blue chamoy
             in one infinite strand
waiting to be broken
             by the humanity of your spirit.
You kneel at its altar,
as a mother returning to her child.
Past your buoyed reflection,
in the architecture of
             sand &
             chancla &
             bottle caps,
our eyes meet.
                          I emerge
from the river floor unsexed.
Someone is
screaming
             Did you choose
                          your own myth?
             Little flaky mouths
                          whisper of you under
                                       shiny blankets,
                                                    behind shadows of links.
                                       Fished from the Rio.

                          howling
             Did you choose
your own border?
             A rocket launches from Boca Chica,
                          and explodes in Aztlan,
             that great mummified Heron

hollering
Someone is searching—
perhaps an image of you
             pummelled into the obsidian bowl
                          of the molcahete
to be discovered like a hieroglyph
by
             another
                          woman
whose lamb continues to thrash
beneath the middle passage
             of Greater Mexico.
—Someone is searching,
but it’s not you or me.
We have met before.



Max Tyrone Lozano: “I am a writer and graduate student at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley, where I have been published in Gallery Magazine. My research and creative interests reside in the Latinx border experience.”




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