DRUG WARS: FOUR POEMS

by Marge Simon

Grim Guests

Taos, 1968

a certain country house

overlooks the sun scorched desert.

It is wonderfully cool inside,

with beautiful floors of sienna tiles

and expensive minimalist furnishings.

To this house comes a black sedan

covered in thick yellow dust from

across the southern border.

Five men emerge bearing suitcases,

four of them are the color of the tiles.

They wear sunglasses,

guns holstered inside suits.

The pale one with yellow hair

speaks English and sits

at the head of the table.

The bong is lit,

the flavor of the day

is Acapulco Gold,

but the bargain

is for snow.

A deal goes down,

in a special language familiar

to all gathered.

No names mentioned,

no questions asked.

The child of the hosts

is not permitted in the room,

but he can smell and hear

what is going on.

Years later, as a top agent

for a pharmaceutical company,

he makes drug deals

less intense, highly profitable;

often deadly, totally legal.

Carrots and Sticks

A boy named Santos knows

how to plant carrots and sticks

to fool the men in green uniforms.

The real plunder is deep in a nature preserve

where fumigation cannot touch its precious bounty

and no government nor Medellin cartel

will choke his livelihood.

Once there were promises

of help for farmers if they

raised legal crops in place of coca.

But when the farmers did as asked,

and planted cane and corn

no help ever came

Mornings Santos plucks a leaf,

chews and dreams of fortune.

He is a grown man now.

He is no fool.

Heavy Weather

Maria lives in Nuevo Laredo.

She awakes early to get her son

dressed and off to preschool.

She checks her social media feed

for news of the latest murder.

Always, there is the weather to think of.

It doesn’t rain water there, it rains lead,

viper kisses any time of day or night,

far from the rainforest,

yet a jungle all the same.

It is part of Maria’s life,

part of her little boy’s life;

he will accept it as she has,

this life in the civilized wild,

it is the way things are.

Prison

It wasn’t a big deal,

maybe just some lids—

rent money, whatever,

you knew people,

they knew people.

You didn’t expect to be caught

selling those baggies, but you were.

There was more afterwards,

like your mom crying and your dad

not meeting your eyes, not talking.

You didn’t expect to be stripped

and sprayed and shoved into a cell

with a guy built like the Terminator

and what he did to you later,

he and his friends.

You never were into sports,

but you learned how it felt

to entertain the team,

dancing at half time

naked in the stark lights,

one fucked up mascot

for two years.

When they let you out,

pointed you to the gate,

pride in shreds, broken—

none of it made sense.

It was only weed, man,

only fucking weed.