Before the Desert
Rio Jones How does a photograph sound as it is taken from a wooden desk drawer? Not its pine planks rolling on aluminum tracks in the back of Miguel’s office, nor the treads of his white sneakers as he crosses the linoleum floor to show me one of his brothers, Rigo, whose bones lay somewhere in the desert, in that borderless stretch where water jugs hide amidst the brittle shade of nopales. It’s a common story back in the States - those who spend their earnings on beer, their families never to hear from them. But before I could even dare to ask, ‘How are you sure?’ Miguel said some compañeros had called months after to tell: “He could not walk any longer,” they simply said, “And we had to keep moving.” How does a photograph sound when it is passed into your hands? Not the plastic gasp - the glossy Kodak rectangle as it bends - but the sounds of market goers outside. He, Rigo, stands in front of a gift shop. I know the storefront, just two blocks from here. Pink and white stuffed bears, black-eyed puppies, and glossy umbrellas sized for little girls hang behind him in the showcase window. His hands are in his pockets. Although he seems at peace, he does not exactly smile. He wears a white Adidas hoodie and one of those knitted caps with the brim turned back. How does someone look in a photograph when he already has plans to leave? And how does the photographer sound when she asks her youngest son if he might pause in the street, in front of that gift shop, just two blocks from here, to take a picture? And, anyhow, what do you say as an American writer “working” here in Guatemala, who comes from New Mexico, who has hiked through that desert and seen the jugs of water camouflaged in the cactus shade? “Lo siento,” you mumble. I feel you. ‘I am so very sorry,’ you think in English, and it sounds a bit like a photograph being passed and placed back in a desk drawer, the aluminum tracks slide as it opens and closes. Mostly the silence, though, and a few footsteps from the market goers outside. |
About the author:
Rio Jones is the pen name of an anthropologist studying for his master's degree in New Mexico. He wrote this poem while on a field school in Nahuala, Guatemala. His instagram microblog @riojones7 has been featured by The Huffington Post, The Poetry Foundation and Aplus.com. |