Another country

Standing in front of St. Igesius Catholic Church,
purple cactus around me,
the Bofecillos Mountains rising behind,
I watch a Texas tornado sweep
toward the Rio Grande—
headed for another country.

Like that other country across the Rio Grande,
you too are a foreign land—
how carelessly you hold my hand
or kiss my cheek when you say hello.
It’s not home, but sometimes
it’s a place I want to go.

There’s something alluring
about a beautiful unknown place,
like the one I see in your face.
But you are still foreign to me,
as much as the land I see.

I am walking down to the river,
but I will not cross over.
I’ll stand at the riverbank
and quietly sit and think.