an end to the drought

Guillermo José Guerra Hernandez Carrillo

never complained about drought

it will end, he said, it always does

 

the tequila never stopped, and for him

that was almost as good as rain sweeping over the desert

breaking the monotony of sun and heat

 

one night, Memo sang about how he and his Comanche kin

rode with Pancho Villa, picked their way across the sky islands,

and shot Texas Rangers for fun and sport

 

the revolution was good then, he said, anything went

a strapping woman with red hair and a winchester

squeezed him and his horse until they fainted with delight

 

Pershing and his Army regulars, Obregon’s frumpy green men,

ran eyes wide, mouths agape, lungs bursting,

from Villa’s Mexicans, Comanches, and what was left of the Apaches

 

Memo and Villa’s men waved their rifles like antennae,

and showed Pershing’s Punitive Expedition a modern war

where fairness was a matter of opinion

 

cool wind sweeps up over Chihuahua tonight

over the gravestones on this bank of the Rio Bravo del Norte

where Carrillo danced in the blond grass with a jug of wine

 

rain falls with a sigh