The Pink Crosses

Ciudad Juárez, Mexico

In this wild city, we are bones
scattered in the valley’s grave. An apron,
a white tennis shoe, a face gone
missing. A mother leans over the dust

scattered in the valley’s grave. An apron
around her waist, on her way to work. The
missing. A mother leans over the dust
and carves her daughter’s initials. Her name

around her waist, on her way to work. The
bones wait to be found; there are always bones. She prays
and carves her daughter’s initials. Her name,
Veronica, and the others, Esmerelda, Barbara, Brenda; our

bones wait to be found; there are always bones. She prays
to the gardens tethered to the field of pink crosses:
Veronica, and the others, Esmerelda, Barbara, Brenda, our
roses, wild poppies, fragile blooms of morning glories,

to the gardens tethered to the field of pink crosses:
the wooden fence marked ¡Justicia!, the desert empty of
roses, wild poppies, fragile blooms of morning glories,
for the women who walk home each night. The unfinished earth.