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Border SHERYL LUNA I know but one river. I have seen its separateness and sorrow. Men and women on porches at night listen to mariachi music rise, lift beers and watch stars blink. Barefoot children run broken sidewalks. Thin-ribbed dogs chained close to fences growl. The shiftless Rio restrained in chain-link resurrections, torn bits of clothing. Border patrol in jeeps at night. Cloudy river, sandy rivulet, alluvial heartache. Language lost and the second generation writes of thirst, leaves with a kiss, watching adobe and stucco disappear— The hawk steals from its own kind. The sun hot on backs. Sleepers and sweepers dark and thin, all things overshadow their faces in the end. ♦ ♦ ♦ ...

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