Fort Ringgold and Chachalaca Refuge in Rio Grande City, Texas

Forward Advance

Old fort grounds overrun

the trees inch forth

see them, feel them climb

from mud of river and bog

to Rio Grande City.

The river is dying

and no longer flows in a bad year

not to gulf or much anywhere—

maquiladora pollution

taste it, see it, touch it

terror in water in air.

Javelina climb

the old bank

ocelots pad

chachalacas wing

raccoons amble like little brown bears

past the decrepit Robert E. Lee house

clawing pawing winging

they are coming going

through old Fort Ringgold

to Rio Grande City, Texas. 

Javelina march snout first

big bellied and stout

others more arrowheaded more svelte

they are coming

from the Rio Grande the littled river

across the chachalaca refuge

onto old fort converted

to massive school complex

domestic conquest

old barracks Spanish arches

colonnades

palms abreeze

brick fortifications

orange trees

outbuildings of every geometric intuition

school busses blaze gold

like armored personnel carriers.

Some mornings

the javelina wish

to attend middle school—

security guards on golf carts

give chase.

Bold possum epic journey

passes parade grounds

—exits gate—

survives four lane highway

dies in Burger King Drive-Thru.

Too far that one too fast.

Javelina are climbing the old banks—

like monster porcupines

dainty hooved—

fur greased into quills—

smelly proud.

Raccoons are swimming the river

to nest beneath Mexican horses

wide-hooved. Sleep and return.

Raccoons operate their masks at night

working the long haul to dumpsters and back

sniffing along trail by fence

by Robert E. Lee's vacant house

up stone steps and across the porch

of—what?—old officers quarters now social services

alternative school and drug counseling and boys and girls club

cowhide bags punched at night in—what?—old chapel

if it were less long—each punch a prayer.

The raccoons are ambling like little brown bears.

Watch Mexican horses and guess

from time to time they cross too

walk the trails near river

pass people crossing stashing

life jackets in brush.

One Sunday two Anglo gentlemen

—where are we?—they ask

if you have to ask

professors?

can't quite place them

or the absurd question

—at back of an old fort—I say

they don't believe they are lost

at a frontier of evolution

trees climbing inching forth

—we're looking for butterflies—they say—

—research—

Mr. Nabokov and partner

I begin to understand

—just passed a group crossing—partner says—

—you would think—he declares—

—that they would take Sundays off—

a rapier response eludes me—

he owns the ability to look

almost embarrassed—

it would be too much to hope

he gets chased by javelina

ocelot or rabid racoon

past brick fortifications

orange trees

along busses

lined up like gold

troop carriers

the fort overrun

the parade grounds

never more alive.

Boca Chica and Roma, Texas

Border End

Littled river

the Rio Grande

in rainy months

still flows into gulf

both banks crowded

with fisherfolk

many in river mouth

straddle two countries

fish one sea.

Border Patrol agents

by sport utility vehicle

barbecue on grill

wonder at day's catch.

In dry months

river landlocks

ugly shore sprawls

stone throw wide—

then alone

Border Patrol dine

no fishing no catch.

Crossing is most convenient

not at river's end of ended river

but in town on sunny afternoon

in yellow inflatable boat

where three men

take a few minutes

to get unstuck from shore

then cross in full sight

of international bridge

downtown Roma, Texas

downtown Miguel Aleman, Mexico

crossing in face of parks houses offices traffic

construction workers half dozen

by Roma's historic section.

You happen to be admiring the river

its elegant bend in bank

high on which Roma sits—

boat men look up call out

their only question—

your lack of Spanish no difficulty now—

coast clear—

you spread arms wide—

they nod polite hellos

passing

up the steps of Roma—

you say hello and wonder

if they are too polite

for the side to which they have crossed

for the side from which they have crossed

for crossing altogether.

100 miles east

at closed mouth of Rio Grande

you walk to locked river's end

skirt its edge

and cross the border

in face of agent in cruiser—

you step over

a washed up log

fallen post and rope—

you are in another country—

you walk on water the consistency of sand—

agent accidentally bumps the horn—

he waves embarrassed nods—

he means nothing by it—

he gets paid to watch seagulls eat fish—

you wave politely

keep going

stride around river's end—

you've learned

the truth about crossing—

seen how it's done—

the horn again

this time on purpose insistent intent—

you used to jump at such sounds—

you turn and wave polite as can be—

he flashes the lights now—

an alien signal

another country

distant planet—

you keep going—

you've learned the truth about crossing—

seen how it's done—

the agent fires his engine—

you used to jump at such sounds—

you've learned the truth about crossing