by her large round window near the San Gabriel
my unarmed mother falls off the wind
forced to fly, blushing and now
carried off by water without her tank of oxygen
as she inflates
she remains small
then the San Gabriel exhales
blood-vesseled
a river of lungs
that same Mexican folklore
has an anvil’s hold on me now
without Pacific Electric or Red Car
downtown ‘scrapers
the vein’s shores should bloom
without the remains of anything broken
that and us
our larger selves
from the large round window a cloudburst
patronas singing to the softening man
aboard the train to nowhere
norte, the pressure of tired muscles
they, a detritus
take from the San Gabriel
it takes from us.