Rooting for Someone Else’s Roots

White plastic bags from Salvation Army 

drift down El Paso’s Durango Street. 

What’s inside?  A water bottle 

in a barbed collar? A bar of granola 

no control over the gambol 

of its boundaries? A package 

of dried fruitage no say 

in its reconstitution? 

Does refugee come from refuse or refuge?

What of yourself do you see 

in that first fish who stepped onto sand 

before it had legs,

before it had lungs, 

before it even            

said goodbye?

~~~

Lorena Diaz and Her New Job 

with I.C.E. Air

Before she took the job 

she asked the internet 

can you still work for ICE 

if your father’s undocumented? 

Tonight, flying back to El Paso 

she’s bored with her phone. With no detainees, her mind begins to roam. 

She looks down at the dark mountains,

wonders if trees in the evening 

enjoy the break from throwing shade.

She’s above Sierra Madre

where grandma lives,

wonders if dad has told her

about the new job.

Right now she’s probably outside 

her cantaloupe-colored cinder block house 

watering her garden: her alfalfa, 

rosas, nopales and nogales. 

Nogales good luck because 

water’s nearby. 

She wonders if roots taste water, 

if they know the difference between 

hard and soft. 

She wonders what it takes for a root,

in the root’s mind, to go from 

moving around concrete

to breaking right through.

She wonders if not

holding on too tightly 

is how you break through. 

She wonders if grandma can see 

the small dots on her wings

blinking.