Valentina's face could be
a tracing from a Mayan fresco.
She walks up Jackson
under the granite lion heads
snarling down from the lintels
of old U.S. Customs House
A potted spider plant
balanced in her left hand
and a long white-filtered
cigarette poking out between
the strong fingers of her right.
She crosses to the sidewalk
on the far side of the street
from the stone and concrete cube
where the Immigration & Customs
Enforcement agency now dwells.
The gray-uniformed
Homeland Security crew
gathered outside the entrance
nosh ham and cheese croissants,
blow steam off their morning cups
of the featured daily brew.
Today's special roast is from
the volcanic soils of Salvador.
where she was born
thirty eight years before.
Why do they all shave their heads
and have faces that look like boiled meat?
and eyes as cruel as the American national bird?
Soon the olive branch in his talons will be replaced
by a second clutch of arrows.
They watch her like the army squad
who raped her and killed her brother did,
and planted a child in her belly,
whom she'd carried on her back
through the Arizona desert.
Now she carries a spider plant
rescued from the law offices
she has spent the night cleaning.
Home to a sunny window sill
in her Mission District flat
where she will try to bring it
back to health.
