The cousin who crossed three
years ago swam
like an eel to the spawn grounds.

He bundled his dry jeans around
photographs, a watch
and a good enough shirt;

as he waded through there was a time
when he had left
one nation but not entered another.

He was in river country
from the first wet foot
to the time sweat ran down his neck

at the sound of a chopper.
Then came America. Then
the day jobs. Now

the money he sends home,
the letters, too, filled
with promises, never asking

of the second cousin; who tried
the desert route
last year in the summer

and may have found a river
country, after
the bottles were empty.