Ulysses

My uncle, Ulysses, is from
El Salvador.

When I was four
He balanced a broom on his forehead to entertain me,

It has since grown over the years,
In my mind,

Into a ladder.
This cemented him as myth in my psyche.

My uncle Ulysses and I are scrambling up a ridge
Near Red Cliffs, Utah.

Among the juniper
And pinyons, the cacti and red-rock, he says

'Noel, it's good to do this for fun, not good
'When you have to run.

'I had to leave my home
'Because of civil war in my country,

'They would kill me, I left everything.'
He had shoes

On his feet,
'There is no shade in the desert,' he said.

He told me how the people in Mexico
Were racist to him,

He was arrested,
At one point, and tells me how they relieved him

Of his possessions; he had nice shoes, but after
He was released

He had to pick shoes
From a pile of all the discarded inmates shoes,

His nowhere to be seen.  The injury to his dignity
Was palpable to me

As I listened to him.
He asks me if there are any poisonous plants here,

Like poison oak or ivy, and I explain we're too far inland,
And too high in elevation,

Echoing my father.
No bears to worry about, there may be a mountain lion

At the apex, some foxes, plenty of rabbits and rodents,
And the desert birds.

To our left,
The Red Cliffs, to our right, the opposite ridge and our camp.

My three aunts are doing yoga together while Ulysses and I
Are exploring.

We shout to them,
We wave, they wave back.  The sunlight reflected off the red peaks,

The light rain dripping on our heads, sagebrush and rabbit scat,
The swish of my pants,

Garden of the sun,
Flower of my world--Leeds Creek curl.