On Staying Behind

She thinks I don’t know why she runs. Not to catch the trains 

or escape la migra or outrun packs of wild dogs. I listened 

to the advice her cousins sent, the older girl cousins, married, 

hard-working girls who left our village with their husbands. 

The journey is harsh, more than two weeks if she’s lucky. 

So many dangers, only two younger male cousins to protect her. 

My daughter has no husband. She cannot stay with me. I will 

not have her stay with me to starve. She leaves with no wealth. 

She and her cousins are their own wealth. I see the strength 

in their arms and shoulders, blood that pumps through heart and lungs. 

No water, no beans or corn. Today, the woman studying our village, 

una profe de los estados unidos, spilled our pot of beans. 

This woman has never known hunger. I saw her shock when I sifted 

beans from dirt, placed beans, dirt, the bit of water I had planned to use 

for grinding the last dried corn. What is a little dirt, I thought, the same dirt 

in which I grew these beans. A child should not see a mother starve to death. 

A mother should not hear that her last daughter has disappeared. 

I bless this last child, daughter of my heart, the one I hoped 

would wrap my body in a serape and lay me next to her father 

at the edge of the church yard. I bless her journey, wishing 

her safe passage, fleet journey. I have said my prayers 

to the village saints. I have eaten my small meal. I will lay 

myself alongside her dog tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, more food 

will come my way. Again, I stay behind. I will wait and hope.