Fall 2007 / Spring 2008

Day Breaks

by Jeffrey Warzecha

Before the MS-13 Bus Assault
Chamelecón, Honduras
December 23, 2004

Across the potholed street,
       Three broken benches become
The bus stop where she waits,
       A young boy grasping
Her striped huipil fluttering in the hot wind.
       Somewhere a payphone is ringing,
The glassless booth long empty.

A stray dog saunters past a music shop,
       The reflections off windows bathing her mange.
Newspapers like tumbleweeds
       Leap down the back alley
Toward men standing around a dusty Ford,
       Its trunk popped open like a mouth,
Inside—AKs, double-tipped knives, brass knuckles.
       Someone passing screams, Mara Salvatrucha!

She whispers to him, Te quiero, hijo mío.
       Windows slam shut.
The sun turns away.
Day breaks.