A migrant’s tale

“No More Deaths!”
That’s the NGO’s goal,
but mine was hiking just one more mile,
trekking east into the blistering Sonoyta Valley,
an unbelievable wash basin in the Sonora Desert.
Here sand and stone meets Oregon Pipe Cactus,
its long arms ascend skyward
pleading no more sun, no more deaths.
A spectral system of streams fan out
in fractured, thirsty veins until vanishing in the heat,
leaving sand and stunted scrub until sight surrenders to haze.
Four gallons of water gouge into my back,
another person carries similar freight.
We trudged three miles off the highway
to find ICE slashed our old water jugs and
mangled our bicycle flag marking the spot.
Eastward we headed to find a new location
and the odometer said we were nearly there;
when we found a white bundle of fleece,
laid underneath a bush which, when unwrapped,
was a tiny baby girl with sunken eyes
never to see the end of the journey
she and her mom begun.
Dried stains of hardship, a story of thirst etched in brown,
a tiny life abruptly ended when her mother,
the weight of her curled body indented in the sand,
could no longer nurse her.

A mother who walked thousands of miles left her here,
and a volunteer drove over a thousand miles to find her here;
we both ended up on our knees, sobbing in the desert here,
dropping tears that never dented the hot desert floor.
We learned long ago not to call 911 - nobody ever comes.
We bundled the baby back into her blanket and slipped her,
while blubbering a prayer, into a black garbage bag;
untangled the bicycle flag and zip-tied it to a bush
by the water jugs and then, in reverent silence,
slipped the baby into the backpack.
Our trek back was taut with strained emotions,
sobs subsided, a silent pack made as the harsh sun
beat down our heavy hearts. We took turns
carrying our little treasure to our truck parked
outside the Town of Why.