Next to Us: Sonnets, Divided

All day behind our houses, bulldozers
have knocked down the tall oaks, the hickories, 
the poplars with their orange-and-lime cups 
suckling spring bees. Finally they’ve broken
for dusk. The windows I walk past are lit 
with end-of-day succor: glimmers of ice 
clinking whiskey, a blade unsistering 
the tender flesh of salmon from its skin,
from a basement window, a slow tapping 
of bongos, dulcet, dilatory. In seconds,
the pulse harshens, boils up, becomes frenzied: 
my neighbor slapping his hembra with hands

like obscenities. In the cul-de-sac
lawns strobe beautifully with tonight’s newscast


                                 *


from a TV screen so wide I can see
the faces the networks have aired all day, 
two women racing from armed ICE agents, 
the vieja in a wheelchair, her nieta
pushing then carrying her down the rear stairs. 
Here, a tremor shakes the street, climbs my legs— 
suddenly I stand amid hammering
hooves, flicking flags—quick doe eye—a hot leaf snort 
smacks my face—then they’re crashing down a gate— 
I hear hooves clatter on planks, their bodies
scrambling for upright, then stillness. Their woods 
are razed. My neighbor’s fist drums like a mallet.

All at once the curtains draw closed. I see
our country darken, a stutter and slam inside.

Read more from Issue 16.2.