orphans of Oaxaca

our slang is salted with the words of those whose ways were lost to politics and pox. we congregate in cardboard kingdoms, learning how to lift and lighten loads and loosen locks. in the plaza between the pyramids of moon and sun, we pick a tithe out of the pockets least protected, most unobtrusively undone. neither deity nor deputy does a decisive thing to deter it; the marks might act the victim, but we natives know that this is how we all prefer it—better we steal from out of sight than starve in public places. and when we hear them talk of horrid quakes and hurri[ed]canes, crying their crocodile tears, we laugh in well-fed faces. “look around,” we say from the shadows. “this sky has been fallen for years.”