Illustration by Wynter Somera

The grammar, punctuation, and spacing in this column are intentionally stylized to break American English rules. It is not a typo. 

the barren land we drive across is just the remnants of the reef of what was once the ocean’s floor/ the stench of petroleum and the angry honking of cars as we cross the mexican-american border/ destroy me/ cactus are the evolution of coral/ they’re far more meaty and slimey now that owls, snakes, mariposas nocturnas, and hummingbirds can live within them/ if they’re not evicted or eaten as a mid/ dawn snack/ but none of that matters because we’re all underwater/ again/ every plateau or mountain has burns on their skin/ they weren’t always dry/ dry/ the carcass of something all consuming/ like the ocean/ petrified

there are no more sandstorms/ thank god/     i wake somewhere in the stretch of road/ there are sunk    en/    abandoned white school buses/ dead women swim out of the caked earth/    there are no more maquiladoras/         somewhere deep in the ocean is a darkness with teeth/ it slithers fast/ like the winds used to/ or the chupacabra/ don’t look/ it’s the history of dead/ women/ in ciudad juarez/ or maybe the darkness is all the wars still happening in the shadows/ or maybe it’s all that we let behind/ all that still haunts us/

the heat wakes me up/ i have to stop counting the time marks on desert rocks outside my passenger window/ what would i find inside the plateaus if i sliced it down the middle/ a clown fish passes by the windshield as we wait/ gas is pumped into our land mobile/ my lips are dry and salty/ when boredom strikes i grow gills and now i can’t breathe in the hot oxygen/ my soul is at war with my body/ again/ addicted to suffering/ when i give the ocean permission to fill the landscape/ again/

mom gets sleepy/ forgets the way back home/ although it’s one highway that takes us to and from our separate lives/ we detour on a giant ocean water’s snake’s spine that pierces through the highway/ a hummingbird swoops down beside the driver’s window/ it has a tail like a mermaid’s/ an owl the size of plankton lands on my webbed fingers/ at a rest stop/ there is no way to dehydrate in the desert/ who was i thinking/ we are exceptional swimmers/ no need for papers or gravity here/ and in the buzzing and blistering land/ quietness/ reveals its history/ what was beneath this desert/ xicuahua/ but what about underneath the pillars wrapped in seaweed/ our home a palace made of pearl/ what of our ancestry of mer/ people/ ancient underwater technology/ were narcos a thing/ then/ too/ what about people/ cu    t up/    into pie    ces/    tos    sed a    cross/ the desert/ or what about fathers leaving their child    ren across state    lines/ do little brothers take d        rugs    and take arms/ against their own/    b/    rain/ does it rain in the depths of the ocean/ do moms and child    ren get separated here/ too/ are  android canines chasing im    migrants/ here too/ did atlanteans    / fear for their lives too/

i think i am carried inside/ once we arrive/ i don    t know which version of me i am/ how many versions of me existed in this same moment/ or/ how old was each of the versions of me happening at the same time/ all i remember is someone handing me a bouquet of blood/ red gorgeous roses/    they are not made of sand         or tumbled selenite/     they’re gorgeous/ but the color begins to melt off of them/ the red becomes liquid/ and the whole room turns red/ the water we breathe is red/ xicuahua was also under attack/ a depressed me slouches/ shrinks into myself/ spins mid living room/ the state of chihuahua becomes red/ the roses ooze into los estados/     uni    dos/ and then i realize atlantis never sunk/ its people/ color/ water ran away from it/ a body at war with its archive/ 

I look out a window and trace the history of the land/  the water recedes/ the sun and moon dance across the sky/ study the evolution of merpeople into/ what’s become of us/ i see the land dry/ species quickly gasping/ gasping for air/ slowly/ adapt from ancestor to dry/ time/ rattlesnakes/ time shakes its sandy scales/ the crunch of boots against the dirt queue the sounds of all the bustle of señoras/ slapping tortillas between their hands/ delivery bicycles/ ubers and lyfts rush in/ everyone is now inside the fossil of my grandparent’s home/ we are in Mexico/ family/ greeting foreigners/ i’m nothing without the ac in my mom’s room/ my siblings are waiting for me in the living room/ holding a gun/ they came from their mother’s house/ to visit me/ i guess in this world we are still at odds and the looming memory of our broken childhood is the mouth of a pistol/ they haven’t tried to kill me yet/

the star arrives/ my father/ gap-toothed/ hand scarred from his brawl with a horse/ he waves at me/ welcome mijo/ he says/ it is said that he does love me/ that him looking for me isn’t about money or filing for his papers/ piercing cold water comes up to my ankles/ i thought i left my powers of day/ dream/ behind/ but here we go/ twisting reality/ because i’m too afraid/ to be in the present/ moment/ the water is surrounding me/ we are backtracking to the world before our visit to my grandparent’s house in atlantis/ i mean chihuahua/ i mean xicuahua/ abuelo’s minerals/ crystals/ garage sale toys/ porcelain clowns from los estados unidos get easily swept off by the current of my imagination/ everyone is waiting for me to take the bouquet/ to greet everyone/ it’s been 20 years since i’d last seen half of these people/ half/ people i don’t remember/ they must’ve been from a previous life/ except ocean water fills the fossil of my grandparent’s home/ and no one’s screaming for help/ or running/ or getting the rafts ready/ i stand blinded by the chaos/ ensued/ i see two white people/ jack and/ rose/  run through the titanic/ finding an exit/ they’re trying really hard not to drown/ in my home/ but a handsome villain/ scared strangers/ and metal gates keep them from getting higher/ and higher/ and higher/ for love/ for air/ and eventually i shake my father’s fully functional indented/ broken hand/ but he pulls me in for a hug/ my gills aren’t forming/ talk about my ancestry failing me/ i drown in my father’s arms/

there is a keychain my mom keeps in her safe/ there is a picture of my father shading the sun from my face with his cowboy hat/ we look like underwater statues/ poseidon and son in arms/ but my father then/ isn’t my father now/ and so we use our imagination to dream together/ we go for a ride on his pick up truck/ the stars are hard to see through the giant sharks swimming the night ocean/ so i look down and see the shape of Mami form from coral in the distance/ everything is quiet/ like the deep trenches/ i miss Mami/ i am betraying years and years of her rage and fury/ by succumbing to my father/ in this moment/ i can’t be here/ i must go/ so i eject from my body/ let it fall over/ but this time i don’t need an ocean to drown us/ or a desert to make carcass of us/ 

what does it mean to start over/ can we ever really do that/ the darkness of outer space swirls around me/ my father and i/ strangers/ but we deserve this more than holding a quiet revolution inside/ us/ respectively/ or is that precisely what we deserve/ a burning apartment/ a memory holding itself against our temple at gunpoint/ we have nothing to talk about/ but i can’t abandon myself/ so i shoot straight back into myself/ sweet talk/ small talk/ inquire ancestry/ because at least i can use dad/ a database/ to pull more earth around me/ learn who i am/ we can toss him to the wind later/ or is that problematic/ is it not restorative justice enough/ can a father never be disposable/ even if he disposed of you first/ is it tip for tap/ more questions for the trans/ ocean/ gods/

it’s very difficult to place broken pieces of tile/ against a curvy wall/ we/ my whole family at the time/ placed broken tile and plates/ above the design of a wonky sun i drew as our guiding sketch/ the wall fought us/ even with the strong cement my dad mixed for us/ my mom eyeing him from her seat/ we had never existed as a family unit in real time/ and space/ the way we did today/ was the metaverse disintegrating/ or was this all part of my wild imagination/ rearranging reality/ was i literally disappearing people from memory/ and bringing things together that didn’t fit/ or maybe i was in the art of revealing/ atlantis beneath chihuahua/ above xicuahua/ my mom/ and dad/ still in love with each other underneath their facade of betrayal/ beyond their past filled with abandonment/ border crossing/ fury/ destruction/ maybe i don’t like my siblings as much as i wanted to/ maybe i don’t even like the desert this much/ chihuahua is nothing like marina del rey/ fresh with the ocean’s breeze/ i think we laughed and cracked tile and plates in unison/ we never cut ourselves with the flying bits/ and the yellow sun/ with its wide eye and long lashes/ red/ red lips/ like after a night out clubbing/ shines even with its crooked rays of sunshine/ the spotlight turns off/ end scenes and the credits roll/

i don’t know how long we’ve been in the desert valley i was born in/ i can’t keep track of the wrinkles on my fingers/ how long have i been holding my breath underwater/ there’s an occasional red trail of blood in the air/ the history of what made us/ my grandparent’s migration from their birthplaces to make it to the city/ their traditions/ already flushed from years of forgetting/ creating something new from the remembered/ this is a long history of diaspora/ of not existing in one place/ the longer i’m under a desert night sky/ so clear in its color/ the more confused i feel about what i am/ where i belong/ where i come from/ it’s hard to quantify/and this desire to label/ is it even mine/ can i enjoy things for what they are/ can i not be so critical/ i keep ejecting myself from real time/ playing anthropologist/ pretending to be a mutant from x-men that can warp life as we know it/ just to find an answer that will probably fleet me for the extension of life/ so the question is/ can i greet life as it is/ as it comes/ yes/ being critical where i need to be/ but embracing the slice of life I’ve been given to explore in this lifetime/ i wonder/ will i ever be able to drive from inglewood/ to chihuahua/ without writing fiction/ without distorting facts/ without yearning/ or simultaneous disdain/ can i be enough in the mystery/ can i accept the plate of frijoles/ tortillas hechas a mano/ ensalada de nopalitos/ without questions/ can the bouquet of red roses just exist as a sweet aroma/ can red/ ever just be red/ and not represent the massacred people across my lands/ in the current time/ but all the times before that/ immemorial/ can i stop digging/ can my hands focus on building more mosaics outside/ for my grandparents to enjoy/ at their old age/ can i laugh with life/ and dad/ and mom/ without wanting to piece them together/ piece us together/ rewrite us/ can i accept this as the right timeline/