And now there is oil pouring out of my veins.
The plumes are spectacular:
you can see them all over Arizona
drenching everyone
confusing homeland security
no not that one (since 1492)
but the gringos, the chingadores
who want my finger prints
who want to keep me or dispense
depends on how worthless I am.

My blood dripping off an oil rig
El golfo de México se murió
and we watched
feeling so so helpless
jaws on ocean floor
mouths filling up with blood
dolphin globally warm algae blood:
this kind of stain is for the ages
for the generations.

For the many who will stare out and say:
I used to swim in that water.
When the fish died, there was nothing of us left.
My family used to live on that land.
I remember when being brown was a little less scary
(but not much)
My children don’t.

Some stayed away, rightly afraid:
afraid of being swept away
in the ICEy tide of oil.
But we were already here,
sweating in the sun
dying in the borderlands
drowning in el golfo de BP.