Deberíamos Dejar

He tries to hide the black eye
and go right to his room, but
she spots it from the kitchen
swoops in with a cool wet rag.
“Deberíamos dejar…” she sighs
while cooing over his wound.
“I know we should leave, abuela
but I still have the job, 
they only take a little.”
He says, in English, for practice.
“Chould! chould!” she chides him, 
her own pronunciation rough.

The eye heals, but 
the cut keeps bleeding
them dry, he falls into bed
exhausted each night 
while she stays up late 
with that old walkman 
and the tapes.
When he dreams he sees
a filifera oasis in Arizona;
when he wakes he
returns to the job as 
lifeless as the desert.

Until the day the cut
becomes a slash
on both cheeks
to send a message
that she receives loud and clear.
When he wakes next
he finds her already 
packing his bag.
“Abuela?” he asks.
She replies, “we’re 
doing away with
‘should.’”