[Immigration Headline], Javier Zamora

[byline]

Northern triangle—First, I lived near mud, there, I carved some things. Then, I found a well, yo soy un bicho migrante. I had to climb trees, find mollusks, made a knife to eat them raw. Later, later-later, I worried about firewood, pots to cook. I asked ¿Where did my parents go? ¿Where? ¿There? I walked to another tree, another shore ... ¿Where are they now? I carved more: my face, my parents’, an alligator’s, yo soy un bicho migrante. ¡But no! I got tired of waiting, of playing, I wanted to see more. I found a river, found a road. Found more like me, a bunch of us waiting for more of us to flee. A tribe. A small village, yo soy un bicho migrante. I saw there were rules, clothes kept dry in plastic bags, phone numbers written inside pants. They also made fire, carved things into the mud. Asked ¿De donde sos vos? I pointed: de allá. Said I didn’t have plans. They answered, ¡Bienvenido! Tapped their feet on the dirt, yo soy un bicho migrante. We walked on the road, then along the road looking for food. Through the forest, through the mountains, we looked for mud, for frogs, for—¡There! ¡There they are! We played our favorite game, until I got bored again. Yo soy un bicho migrante. Nights are boring. Fireflies ... boring. Stars, the moon ... Well ... I began to let myself think ... babosadas came to mind: countries, passports. Then, I walked away from everyone, got to a mountain, then another one. Got to a river where I saw rats. ¿Have you seen the tribe? ¿A savage bunch that makes fires from trash? In a hurry they chased after me. I ran north. Found a few others. Or, maybe it was just me. To eat you have to believe, they said. Handed me something in the dark. Yo soy un bicho migrante. Saw pizza in the dark, hamburgers, clouds maybe. Maybe clouds. I saw fireflies. Few days had passed. I felt like an empty road. I invented machines. Planes. Fast cars. I barely had time to learn their names. I barely had time to say goodbye. Yo soy un bicho migrante. Years later, I filled forms. Wrote my name & woke up in a bed that had traveled 56 days, 56 nights. Then, came an election. War. Kids kept coming, but I had to find work. Wrote so many books my hands got tired. Made alternatives for plastic. Someone separated people into groups. Trees were cut extinct. But I destroyed fences, jailed kings, invented a replacement for countries. We searched for 
purpose. Happiness. ¡Anyone could travel anywhere! We learned new languages. I had looked through the window I wasn’t supposed to. Yes, I looked. ¿What can I say? So I could be certain I looked & broke through. Yo soy un bicho migrante. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll return to that well & begin carving mud again. I’ll carve the whole world backwards. But no. Maybe not. Migrating has no beginning. No purpose. Yo solo soy uno de muchos bichos migrantes.

 https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/javier-zamora