Public Republic

David Chorlton

Photo: Wolfgang Staudt

One road is named after The Devil
but you won’t meet him there; he’s in Nogales
putting scorpions in Lucite
for souvenirs by which to remember
the sting of the sun
as you pass
from being poor to being illegal.
Another runs underground

where the moonlight flows
after it has drained from the surface
of the desert
and it tastes of salt and the kisses
from those who stayed behind.
There’s a road that runs through the stars

where la Migra never go
but nobody who followed it
ever came back down to Earth.
A road made of dust
falls apart
as you travel along it

while one consists only
of light
and it’s layered on the heat
which runs straight across
and never turns back.
Some of the roads are so thin

hummingbirds pick from them
to make nests. Some are smoke. Some
peel away and stick to you
so that when you reach their end
you’ll be marked; you’ll be asked
wherever you go
where you came from.