mountains in Dallas—hometown flat
as half-drank soda in the morning
left on TV trays after moms and pops
burst through the door, moonlit,
saying it was time Raul got on home,

and ain’t no valleys neither, nothing high
but stooped teenagers hurling stones
at us & our pocket change which rattles
tuneless songs as we escape & nothing low
'cept Raul’s pops smashing sixers in the alley,

and ain’t no rivers coursing through
the hood where we escaped into
backyards, unaware poison ivy ran wild
along the fence lines as we sprinted
over wind-toppled chain-links;

there were plenty of creeks though

but rubbing our ankles with globs of mud
ain’t do nothing for rashes like Raul said
his abuela said it would so we sulked back
home & our parents cackled as they washed
our splotchy, red skin in thick, red juice

and ain’t no keeping us, we’d say, where our
parents could still map every asphalt crater
we ain’t getting trapped like that, Raul’d say,
no, we’d head to the ocean & discover
an island even the cartoons ain’t dreamt.