[Immigration Headline]

by Javier Zamora

la herradura, s.v.—¿Do I have a
mother? Have her pinkie in my hand
crossing the street? Have her breath on
my hair as she sings arru-rru mi niño to
sleep. ¿Don’t you mean where? ¿What
was your question? I’m older. Think
more about memory. It makes me
crazy. Obsessed. Her warm breasts on
my belly as she knelt to tell me todo va
estar bien. I’ll never see her again was
the fear as if she’s gone, died, will never
come back. I whispered it hidden in
banana groves looking at the sky
hoping one of those planes would take
me to wherever she had left to.
Whenever Mom hung the clothes to
dry, not a cloud in the sky. I could see
her sandals picking up dust. For a
second. For a second I believe she’s
back. It went like that every day. Every
single night. 
I’ll never see her again. But
then, I did. Her face. Her hair. She was
the same. So much had changed. I do
not remember 
what it was I truly felt.