Ferrocarriles

My (failed) attempt at prose poetry... I can't quite get the language down. I was inspired to do it after doing research for my Spanish Lit. course-- for all those that don't know, "Ferrocarriles" means railroad--it'll make sense when you read the piece.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ferrocarriles

El día está caliente. The air wavers, the trees sway in a breeze that does not give breath, but takes it away. Big families crowd little shanties, rusty tin roofs held down with rocks. Rooms rancid with sweat. No dinero, no comida. Children crying, elderly dying. Parents working, daughters helping, sons sniffing—glue. Marijuana, paint thinner, a chance to escape the pain of living. Gangs rule the streets, la policia is corrupt, the last chance, the one hope is el norte, los Estados—America. They turn to coyotes who get them there—for a price, for drugs…for sex.  They blunder blindly by night, hustled forward on to buses where gangsters lie in wait to prey on their fear. The coyotes are scared, as well—scared of capture, scared to die, so those who fall behind stay behind, to fend for themselves or die trying. Those who keep up are kidnapped, held for ransom the coyotes are sure to receive as desperate loved ones do what they can to help the hostage that only wanted freedom. There is another choice. Hiding in the shadows, they come to the trains. The ladders move fast. They have to time their jump perfectly, their hands holding on to the rails as they are jerked irresistibly forward—their grip is loosening, they can’t hold on as the air beneath the train pulls them closer and closer to the wheels that will surely kill them if they let go. Safety—they find the strength to pull themselves up. The train approaches a checkpoint. They must jump off quickly before they are caught by la migra. Run, hide, don’t let them see you, for if they do, they’ll take your money, beat you, leave you for dead or put you on the first bus back to the beginning—the beginning of despair, the beginning of the end. Those that escape listen for the train whistle when it leaves the checkpoint, hoping to catch it again as it races past. If they don’t, they’ll wait for days, hiding from la migra, bandits and gangsters who rob, beat and rape them. They finally make it to the border. The Rio Grande. Bloated bodies float by on inner-tubes, while many more are pulled down by the currents, victims of the treacherous water. Those that survive must evade la Patrulla Fronteriza. Even if they find a job, they need to be careful, invisible, because if la Patrulla finds them without a green card, whether a day, month or year since their journey, they’re sent back again. It’s a small price for libertad.

 

-Aaron Stewart