Green Light Go

To be a disco ball dangling in a storefront window, in the sun, with a cage on
 it. To be two and three disco balls, downtown McAllen, spangles of sun and
 water that grew tangerine skins late February, pink bottlebrush nostrils, buff-bellied hummingbirds. To be mirrors and hexagonal combs, mexican honey
 wasps, larvae, paper, wax. To make geometry without vocabulary, to be live 
music—take off your jacket, girl, wear your tank top . . . it's ninety degrees! To be a green light go, downtown Corpus, after cars and trucks zooming on beach
 sand, before hot tubs. To be an orange sun driving from Anzaldúa's grave, to
 be a cactus bloom fuchsia, opuntia, Laguna Atascosa, Laguna Madre, to be a
 watering hole, a mud chimney air vent for crawdad water tunnels. To be a silver lizard run over by tires, a swatch of river on asphalt, to be a bolt loosened from 
the border wall, to be a peso falling out of the border crossing's revolving slot, 
to be a coke-bottle dove, a mexican coca-cola, a cooing quorum of lotería cards
 signing a resolution. To be a goose perched on top of an abandoned sink in a yard, in a town that fords the river, to be the woman stretched on her beloved's grave, returned after decades. To be a kid in juvie, to be her guardian, the judge, 
the p.o., to be the letters she writes, the words that matter more than food, almost as much as music and more than makeup, nearly suns seen through the mandatory skylight, imagined by the control room monitor. To be el chalán, the last hand-drawn ferry on the river, its ropes pulled by pilots, to be a passenger
 almost on the other side.