Tuesday, December 20, 2011

the dead women of Juarez

I relate to the dead women of Juarez.
Every scar a colonial moment.
Privilege cut into our skin.
And every fuck just a fuck.
The history distant,
imagined and dull.
But her eggs aren't well done
and the inheritance won't come
'til she's at least twenty five.
Sulking on the golden teet.
Polite conversation before
the big black man
with a gentle face
and nice smile
slips it in her arse.
And meanwhile
another face,
is buried
beneath men,
and dirt.
Her stomach cut,
tear-ducts fucked,
pissing blood and lime.
A sour taste.
Hidden beneath
the discarded fragments
of industry.
But there is only silence
in illuminated text.
And it is strange
to not have TV.
No room for dessert.
Throat cut,
eyes to god.
Laying in a ditch
while her mother sleeps,
dreaming Mexican dreams.
And perhaps there is no difference
between the white woman
disturbing my meal
with inane chatter
and the dead girl
just south of the US border.
I relate to the dead women of Juarez.
My bones aching with guilt
and my beer getting warm.


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