That’s not a great translation
but how else would Primitivo get here,
except through poor translation?
Some crossers have boats to put themselves in
but Primi only has his words. He keeps his goodbyes
in storage, he might not return
and his family is instructed to take the goodbyes out of storage
if they don’t hear from him after 2 years. In the casa de cambio
the peso is reincarnated
and comes back to life
as a dollar sign.
Primi has also passed on; his narrative
now belongs to his final resting place,
the place where he never got to rest, the maquila.
Crossers like him are pulled to the border by their own weight
while the boss sprays them with coins. Peso after peso, amen.
These are false employees because they’re under the table;
sort of like a false door. I live in other worker’s thoughts
and that’s why in my beginning you can find my middle and end.
It’s all employee narratives but I can’t see them. Privately,
I’m told there is a void where I only exists
in private formats.
It’s a visual story the fabrica tells
of its employees clothes: “Their smocks, their jeans,
were made by them. They wear what they sew.”
And it all may be a fabrication
because the factory needs fiction to run
so they need your story, duh. The dereal factory worker
runs the wheel while the morning mumbles her hubby’s name, Primitivo.
The workers were sent home in hopes that home will become a maquila of logging-in.
Plus, they’ll never have to leave. The past,
like the border, is its own country.