Woman, Traveling

     by Leslie Clark


Three years ago my husband traveled North with our young son
in search of a better life.  I could not leave my village then.
My mama was ill, dying, my younger sister still in school.
I, torn between two branches of family, had to watch
as my husband and son left me, vowing to send money
so I could join them later. Much of my heart
traveled the foreign trails with them.
I nursed my mama through her pain, her despair.
Every day she told me, “Do not lose sight of your men,
Anita.  Plan to join them soon. Family is all.” 
I stroked her forehead and promised.
Now she is gone, a part of the earth of our Mexican village.
My sister has gotten married and moved away.
My Carlos has sent money faithfully, and now, 
finally, I have enough for my own passage.

My chest is clenched with fear– I’m a woman alone
setting out on a long  and perilous trip 
in the company of those I know only slightly.
A few from the next village–one my husband’s distant cousin.
Carlos says this cousin will watch over me for him.
A coyote is recommended by someone who knows
of  his successes. There are mostly young men
in our group of travelers–one whole family–
two parents, two children.  I watch this other woman
with her seven-year-old son, and feel my heart
travel to my own Carlitos–nine now, whom I have missed
for so very long.  I gaze at a photo of him and my Carlos
every day, try to conjure up Carlos’ soft caress,
the fragrance of my son’s skin.  Let those give me courage.

At first sight, the eyes of the coyote chill my skin.
They are small, black, glinting like axe-blades in the sun.
I feel those eyes travel the length of my body.
On the bus, I sit far in the back, huddled 
to make myself invisible.  After hundreds of bouncing
miles, in deepest night, we unload.  It’s time to walk
across the border–rough terrain through foothills.
We are silent, black shadows in the darkness.
The coyote is tense.  He barks whispered orders to us all,
prods us forward with his commands.  We see the large
black pistol on his hip, and obey, even the small children
dare not make complaint. When the sun paints orange
on the horizon he tells us we are across–this is the Estados
Unidos.  Several of us whisper prayers of thanks. “Don’t
get comfortable,” he growls.  We rest a bit now, but we have
fifty miles to go.”  We all curl up in the shelter of trees,
lying on blankets, heads on packs.

I am prodded awake roughly.  The coyote stands above me.
“Come,” he says, “I need to speak with you alone.”
I shake my head no.  He puts his hand on his pistol.
I look around for help, but the others are asleep.
My mouth begins to open and he clasps a rough hand
over it.  “You scream, I shoot you here.”
He pulls me by the arm to a patch of trees
a hundred yards away, forces me down on the
rocky earth, yanks away my pants,
lays on me his heavy weight, tearing into my body
that has been taken only with love before.
I turn my head from his stench of shit and sulfur,
the sight of the cold black gun, his even colder eyes.

My body is a million pains–the stabbing of rocks
in my back, the burning from within, the tearing
of my heart. My tears soak the thirsty earth.
He whispers, “You are my puta for this trip.
Fifty miles–I can fuck you a thousand times by then.”
I pull my pants back on with trembling hands
and we return to where the others rest. My husband’s
cousin is awake.  He stares for a moment.
The coyote says, “What you looking at? We move soon,
better rest now.”  He puts his hand on his pistol.  The 
cousin lowers his eyes, then turns his body away.
I sink to my blanket, pull my cherished photo from my pack,
gaze at it through blurred eyes.  My Carlos, my Carlitos,
will I ever reach them?  If I do, what sort of 
woman will I be by then?