Meet me at the border.

There where little girls use

yellow crime scene tape to play jump-rope

where moms learn the ropes of food stamps,

jump though the hoops

of social security; where their boys

play hoops and shoot from three-point-crown-lines

and insecurity tapes record the noiseless scenes

of convenience stores at nighttime

better not make a scene or you’ll lose

loose your rope or you’ll make a crime scene

zip code encoding your chances of survival

as you take your last breath

(wheezing from the asthma)

take your chance and let feet jump at the end

of your rope, pray you’ll sink

This is the valley of the shadow of death and

we are right on the brink.

Meet me at the border.

Meet me at the edge of your neighborhood

and mine, that thin red line where angels fear to tread

and latin kings quick-draw the line between the quick and the dead

with 9-millimeter lead pencils

Meet me there and we’ll stencil

a new border, sketch with incense and dreamcatchers

zig-zag the edges til the marginalized

becomes the center and we’ll devise

a whole new urban legend to match

this map of yours and mine.

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