by Mel Bosworh

Miquel drove in reverse from Tumacacori to Nogales, engine winding.  Red dust from the
mission covered the back of his hands like a bad rash, palms dragged clean down the
front of my blazer to my feet.  The Santa Cruz River knew bette--surging south
alongside us, snaking from the north--but remained reticent as Miquel mashed the pedal
with a scuffed loafer, eyes forward, scorched rubber spinning us farther from su hija
muerta.  I pinched the stem of the blood rose through my lapel and prayed for him, for us,
for the love that could not take it back.  Through the windshield I watched the sky break
pink, and the towering saguaros lessen.