Two girls rise while the other children—95 and counting—lie
huddled on mats, sleeping off the strangeness of El Norte.
The World Cup is on: Honduras versus some country in Europe
they’ve never heard of. In a room full of youth curled beneath
iridescent silver blankets, like the kind their mothers gave them
to hide under when the sun got too hot, the girls watch a small
TV in the far corner, bigger than the one in the café back home,
watching a game unthreatened by gang bangers cornering them
for a lay, by the boys high on shoe glue that they sniff to propel
them through the piles of trash, the hunger, the lonesome heart.
But these girls—these girls have families, families that have saved,
slaving hours in the TV factory only to sew it all into the tongues
of their shoes. They could hear their mothers wail as they hopped
each new train, and each time they hid under a hot piece of tar,
they recited the mantra of their abuelas, “It’s better this way, mijita.
There is no future here.” Here, their hope reigns despite the holding
cell that grows more children each passing day, the chain link fence,
dense crossbars ensuring no escape, boys and girls herded like cows,
garments stripped off to find their hidden sums. Here, they can watch
soccer, cheering (quietly—the other children sleep) each save, each
attempt to score, each break away down the field.
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Originally published by Badlands in 2018.