foreign bodies

cells and sinew catalog and organize,
taking inventory on repeat, on repeat, on repeat,
so “foreign” cannot dare to exist in
the body’s fierce claim of its borders–
but when is a border not an invitation
for crossing, for becoming, for transformation?

bodies within bodies,
atoms trespassing,
pollen on the wind
festering in lungs,
tongue foreign to the ear,
a boy on a train alone

the great america stands,
a body impenetrable like some luchador
he wanted posters of but never got,
and he wonders how he’ll pass the t-cells–
pass border patrol– avoid becoming
a cancerous identity

america is not a técnico,
not for the people, preying on violence.
he is not even a luchador–
he is a WWE fighter or a bodybuilder,
and he pushes his limits,
and pushes his wife’s limits,
and he calls many things sickness,
dares them to try and take him–
dares this boy to try

his coyote can’t help him,
only push him into the depths,
and he will have to prove himself:
not a virus, a parasite, a cancer, a threat,
but mirrors are no historians–
they can’t tell where skin begins
or what stories it carries, won’t show
the blood’s migration, the small heart’s rebellion
against the map– and he can barely see himself because of it,
and so he will be seen as brown

he will be an alien– weakened,
alone and a threat– and the t-cells will come,
and he will go to the hielera, and he will come out tired,
waiting for some tía o tío with a green card,
waiting for a trial, hoping to become autologous:
hoping to be an american body

his foreign body must refuse to be an aberration–
a part of the porousness of america’s being,
a quiet uprising against tyrannical neat lines
and tidy narratives– and he must fight,
and he must be taken care of