Maria Isabel Pachón: American Dream

Photo: Joanna C. Valente

american dream

I head to the bridge

you showed me once,

I was blown away

with the sense of danger:

drunk on Sunday,

watching the cars pass.

I have seen your eyes

get red while you talk

with yourself about

your past lives:

A waiter on a cruise ship

crossing the Pacific Ocean;

A skater boy airwalking

in the Wilshire Rails,

looking for the highest

hill to bomb;

A bass player in a one-hit

wonder rock and roll band;

A fist fighter, a dealer, a vagabond

sleeping on the bathrooms

of the Providence Hospital. 

I have seen your pain:

kneeling on the floor,

counting pennies,

counting cents.

I remember when I told you,

in the back of your truck,

in my awkward English,

 ‘you got me, baby.’

I wish you didn’t.

Always the same

1222 Sunland Park,

neon lights,

State Line, ‘Stay

in the car, I´ll be back

in a minute.’ I yell.

Your name gets lost

in the dessert.

I read behind your broken

words behind my broken

screen:I know a place

we can hide,  crystal doors

 and wooden knobs.   

I have seen your joy:

dancing while making

grilled cheese sandwiches.

Please don’t call

the cops on me.

I keep tracking

cigarette butts

on Shuster Avenue. 

It was just a shitty day,

a shitty, shitty day.

My temples hurt.

I hate you

for making me walk

at this time in summer.

In the back of a Circle K,

your knees shaking your hands

 on  your head,

I see you.

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Maria Isabel Pachón was born in Bogota, Colombia and moved to El Paso two years ago to begin an MFA program in Creative writing at the University of Texas. Pachón has written articles for the arts magazine Stopart and short stories for the journal Literariedad (both in Spanish).