Gustavo Hernandez

Cienega

The only thing I was able to retain today is that in this county 
there once sloshed a swamp full of tree frogs. Before drainage 
channels, in the willows, before the dry heave of our cowboy 
airport, was the song, were their throats. Their public participation
a sort of landmark. We know our fathers were ordered to tame
that land and grass, Hermano. Everywhere the hands and blades 
and bricks of ghosts, and I want to be real—I’m lost
in the development and in the reconfiguration. In the dead,
Hermano. Yes, I was once told that love is never just
one body. Yes, I learned about this swamp and its unified 
voice helping travelers find their way through the night, but
right now, I’m sick of being guided by what I can no longer see. 

Back to Issue IX…