Anapra Border Exchange
by
Lina Rincón
We went shopping to the two-nation area and the three-state territory.
We faced Cristo Rey,
the barb wire crowned fence
and the thick steel cut ingots
that reached and
infinitely touched the sky.
Looking through the tall bars
we discovered their bahareque castle.
A renowned third world solace in the desert heat.
Looking through the border bars
they glanced at our earthly possessions.
Castle side infants scrutinize desert side migrants.
Why are you here, tourists?
I was here as fences were up, then destroyed by winds of "change."
I've seen wired walls replacing fences and ingots criss-crossing
the air that we breathe,
curtailing the food that we eat.
I am seven and you were never here.
Why are you here?
Why are we here?
The loud silence of our border-crossing parents,
and the thick weight of their statutory past awakening
my curiosity, my obliviousness
about the ties between their silence and my cozy present.
I am young, but I was never here.
Why am I here?
We went slant trading looking through the Anapra border wall.
What would we be without this barred exchange?
