A Corporal Warning
Sailing the black milk and syrup
over León, you sleep on my arm,
which was made for your sleeping.
Guanajuato highway, runway, roll
the vessels into one. A mountain’s down
there, broadcast antenna. Hear your dreams
through rental headphones—volume
soft. Your grandfather’s finger across
the mesa, he tells you your shaken past.
Nice parts, disjointed stuff. How you
learned to drive dry fields at night,
scorpion cradling your brother’s crib.
How you took your shelling of parents
for granted. The moment you laughed,
the whole room stopped to hear. Here
is a different world, he utters. The clouds
no longer arrive for free. Ours, a world
for maxed voices, muted logics,
clear vices: a corporate warming.
With everyone a leader, there are none
to heed orders. Louder, whispers:
There’s something to always creep
towards. I wonder, then, what’s slashing
your brakes as we reach it?