Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Passport in the Ice Age

Who will recognize my 7-year-old face in
the passport I did not renew in over five
decades? I thought I was safe. I would stay
here at this postal address for the remaining
years of my life. Who would recognize me
in the place of my birth where the sun was
especially harsh and the avocado trees were
a godsend? No one would know me. Most

of those that knew me are long gone from
this world or have moved away.  I would be
left to plan my exit from the days alone.

Birds would be my only friends. At the
airport no one would greet me. I have only
flown once, to Las Vegas, for 45 minutes

in my nearly 60 years of existence. In the 

fields of Zacatepec where I grew up, I would
be a ghost. In all my life I never knew jails. 

Why would I know them now?

Into the Dust

If I could dissolve into dust,

I could inhabit the smallest space.

There would be no road too narrow.

There would be no house too tiny.

From a distance the moon would 
seem a place too far if I could
dissolve into a speck of dust.

No road too narrow or house too tiny 
and this is what I am contemplating.

From a distance the moon would be
gigantic from my perspective as a

speck of dust. No road too narrow

and no house too tiny. Do you ever
contemplate things like me? So many
homes are littered with dust from

Los Angeles to Tucson to Beirut.

You and I, let’s be companions,

like specks of dust.

Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poetry has been published by Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, San Antonio Review, Triggerfish Critical Review, and Unlikely Stories. His latest book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press.