On Leaving

I can run five times around the village, my dog beside me. I have tested 

myself against her speed, my younger cousins’ endurance. I win. 

My cousins go with me this morning, their dark hair glossy, so young 

their shoulders. Their mothers tell me to watch over them. 

I have said goodbye to all who remain, grayed village elders, 

wooden statues of saints in our small church, my mother. 

I go with the blessings of my mother and her sisters. I am the youngest 

of the girl cousins, no great beauty, no wealth to keep me here. 

I wear only what I have. I carry a blouse one aunt gave me, 

a friend’s old sandals for days when heat persists into the night. 

My cousins who have made the journey send this advice: travel early 

in the morning and at night. When you reach the trains, gain a space 

in the middle; don’t move. Don’t let anyone steal your space. When we 

reach Mexico, we are to look for coyotes wearing yellow bandanas, 

not red or green. Those wearing yellow come from our region, 

they speak our language, they are known to our village. 

If no one waits at the border wearing yellow, we wait or take 

our chances. I have waited two years for this chance. No more. 

If the coyotes separate me from my two cousins, mis primas 

instruct me to let them take what they will, but not my life, never my life. 

They think I don’t know what they mean. I know what a man 

can take from a woman. I know my younger cousins’ pride. 

I will protect them from their pride, our family honor. I will scream 

or fight if I can. I will run if I can. I know now how fast I can run.