During my grandfather’s sleep, a brujo whispers into his ear: “To fasten English to the tongue, rinse your mouth with black coffee poured inside a gold chalice.” Rattle of clay pots fishes Grandfather from the dream pond, not the faultline’s jostle, nor aftershock. Emboldened, he rushes to the white man’s market—hungered, barefooted—for a cut of beef. Twigs, pebbles, and glass tack to his soles like a sandal. He arrives to the meat counter. A carnicero flays strips of shoulder from a block of lamb. The butcher’s apron smeared with vermilion petals. Here, only the tripas whisper the pig farmer’s Spanish. The scent of dried, salted shrimp quivers the lining of his stomach. He struggles to muster his immigrant’s lexicon of malapropisms: “Execute me, sir…” His voice received as crackles of static… On this day in 1958, Grandfather operates a tractor in the arid desolation of farmland. The oxen of wheels kick up dust participles into the atmosphere. Also: the sun slow roasts his arms. Brown. The color of tender flesh kissed by gnats. Dusk. A cliff swallow tows a bow of lilacs across the horizon. Hunger—like English, like Mexico—is a honeycomb the bees have abandoned. In an anthology of unsettling dreams, the sun is worn on Grandfather’s brazos like sleeves. Out there, dusk will carol for him in Spanish: Song of the sparrow, song of the cliff swallow.