Equus Mexicanus Diaspora

In her filigree thoughts, Juanita knew she didn’t
need fancy fossils to indigenize the rumbling of
hooves down to the river, pre-Cortez. She had a
formidable sense that faunal traces of mares and
stallions echoed in the red, river clay that kept
her ancestral skulls—genus homos, but, erectus?
After all, she always had the olfactory sense of
a quadruped, identified wind swept manes long
before her eyes did, made tall grasses her bed.
Somewhere, a moon rises over that space, where
we are linked beyond morphology. There, you peer
through a slit in the sorbet fog, after a brisk gallop,
ensconced in Anahuak’s invisible, feral herds:
now sad phantoms, with downcast eyes, nearly
eclipsed by the advent of genocide, the beheading
of those soft chariots she runs alongside in dreams.