The Mexicali Blues

The Mexicali B lues Brian Laird Heart, have nofright. There on the battlefield I cannot wait to die By the blade ofsharp obsidian. Our hearts want nothing but a war death. —Aztec Poem Arm yourself! Grab a gun, a knife, a rock. Pick up a gnarled old stick of thick wood and pound a nail through the knotty head. The handcuffs, slipped loosely around your skinny wrists in the night, are tightening, tightening. Wake up, Damn it! I'm the giggling psycho pinching your toe in the pale light ofdawn. You rub your eyes, thinking, What? Am I really here? Wake up! If you sleep while it gathers its tanks and lines them in the square, then, too late: tan and relaxed—and handcuffed—you'll stand before them, blinking. And you'll be crushed. Thenforgotten. Arm yourself. Attack! The Burning Earth The ground is darker now. Smoke slips up in places, chemicalearth combusting spontaneously under the summer sun. The dirt is actually smoldering here. It is saturated with toxic waste, and I wonder what would happen if I set a match to it. I pat my pocket, but find only plastic film canisters—supplies for the day's work. Steph skids down the embankment to the river's edge. But it is not a river. Not anymore. The smell overpowers. We have handkerchiefs knotted behind our necks, covering our mouths and noses, like train robbers in an old western. The dirt on the banks is a broken dark brown, like coffee grounds. But there are veins of white running through it. And the smoke. The smoke shouldn't be here. The earth shouldn't burn. She leans close to the water. Not water. Pollution. Toxic waste. 62 Brian Laird Words aren't strong enough. They can't carry the smell—the chemical stink seeping into your nose and throat, searing your tissues. She focuses her camera, sets an aperture, and shoots—a thin plant growing in the poison. She is very near the edge, her feet planted precariously in the soft earth. I think to say, be careful. But I let it go. Further along I see the legs of an animal sticking out of the paleyellow tall grass on the opposite bank, separated from me by the crawling olive green liquid. Planks, placed end to end and balanced on car tires, form a precarious bridge that touches the white foam frothing at the riverside. I step onto the cracked wood carefully, knowing that if a board gives or if I move wrong I will fall into the river. I consider backing out, walking downriver a mile or so, to the bridge where the road crosses. Then I think, the hell with it, and I slip into the dream world: The wood creaks under myfeet. The murky green water seeps up onto the boards, touches the soles ofmy boots. I can see right where the line breaks, the dryness starts. Ifeel I can make a slight adjustment and move the line ofwetness an exact millimeter higher or lower Another step and the board moves. I shift my balance, hoping vaguely that the plank will hold. It does, and I step gently offthe plank onto the other bank. Itis a calfcarcass. Small chickens peck at the skin around its neck and stomach, breaking through tough hide to get at the maggots crawling in the soft flesh. Where the chickens have been pecking, the fur looks like the tussled hair of a child fresh from the tub—blond, matted, and wet. Up the bank is a shackhouse. A couple of skinny cows, a swayback horse, and these chickens. The chickens eat at the carcass, drink from the polluted stream, and the humans eat the chickens. A natural cycle gone bad. And the people—especially the children—are sick so often that some of them have forgotten they were ever healthy. Just accept it. Part of the routine. Part of the wheel. They live here because the few remaining factories are here. The maquilas. There is work here. Sometimes. The sun beats down on their rough huts. The factories pollute, the workers pollute. One million people squat together on this flat, hostile...