If I ever want to fly, I’ll cut down I-25 to the Soccoro exit,
where there are Texans driving their yellow
Cadillacs and grey Lexus SUV’s along the road to Cruces,
where a driver might see small brown snakes crossing the highway.
There’s a place along the Rio Grande serving
as an outpost for la Migra: sure, I’ve heard the stories
about how they stop anyone with straight, black hair
and how the hippy kids hide pot underneath ice and fresh fruit
pulled from the refrigerator shelves of a Safeway in Belen.
One time on the road I followed the map
to the right, trying to sight the spot marked Trinity:
all I came up with was the sudden heat of summer sun
dessicating a land of dry, bone-colored minerals
where everyone in my family chooses to be buried.