by Deb Longley

Created on: April 17, 2008

Rocks

Machete-waving drunk Columbian
Didn't see it coming.

Didn't know the half-Mexican in his field
Threw rocks in Tucson thirty years ago

Eight year old boys hiding in the nopales
Clutching rocks as big as their fists
Learning how to throw hard and straight for the head
Or chest

Right where the Columbian got it
I guess they don't throw rocks in Columbia.

Ten years later on a bus in Afghanistan
A dozen men get off to wait in the heat
While the driver fixes a flat.

Hot desert stones find their way to an unremembered target
A tree. Probably just a stump.
One at a time the men toss the stones.

At first just gentle curving throws
A veiled threat
Nothing so honest as a drunken Columbian with a machete.

The second round
Flatter, harder, faster.
Those who can't connect fade to the background
To light cigarettes and watch

Four men remain
In Afghanistan they do throw rocks
Hard enough to kill a man.

The half-Mexican is the last one standing.
There is an understanding.
No love.
He gets to finish his ride.

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