The Madonna

The material girl rolls across the floor,
smashing the border fence
right into Colonia Esperanza
where a cute boy lives near the foam
of the New River.

Where the gay drag bar hovers
on its banks, the cement foundation juts
over the edge. An impersonator lip-synchs,
twirling her rosary.

Where the bus dies in the middle
of the street on a desert midday
searching for my boy, and his brother
died of TB, the next.

Where a car radio blares “Like a Virgin”
while the palatero rings his bell,
for another soul has made it to heaven.

Where a motel has all its rooms
unlocked. And we spend an awkward night
unfamiliar with each other,
while Our Lady watches.

And on a Sunday morning,
the Madonna sits with us
while we eat birria,
under a tarp
of a home that has become a restaurant
that the material girl rolled into.

Creative Commons License
Except where otherwise noted, the content on this site is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.