Grandfather made the crossing in his fishing boat. We ride bicycles. Caked mud dries, flakes off rims.
Barrenness covers miles. Grit from the dust devils stings our eyes. We push on.
They didn’t mean to misplace Lake Poopó.
Dead marsh grass slaps at our pedals, crunching under our wheels. The headstones stand on the hill, above the lost shoreline. We stop. My brother shakes his head. A faint twisting of his mouth passes quickly.
They wish us good luck.
We place stones on our ancestors’ graves. I double-check my pocket. We are ready. Two bus tickets to Sucre.
Picture is copyright by Rocco Lucia.