To Juan Doe #234's image

I only recognized your hair: short,

neatly combed. Our mother

would’ve been proud.

                           In the Sonoran desert

your body became a slaughter-

house where faith and want were stunned,

hung upside down, gutted. We

                                          were taught

to bring roses, to aim for the bush. Remember?

You tried to pork

a girl’s armpit. In Border Patrol

                                         jargon, the word

for border crossers is the same whether

                           they’re alive or dead.

When I read his flesh fell

off the bones, my stomach rumbled,


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