The Spectacle

A man and his daughter

wash up on the river mouth.

The man envelopes the daughter

with his uniform. 

Even nullified he understands

spectacle: together, in repose,

they form a whelk.

A complete deck of bones

crammed into purse

markets the purse. 

The bones are nameless

and therefore without price. 

Unless coupled with the purse. 

Unless the purse rejects a hex

like girasol or milagros. 

On a path through the border’s hairline

a little boy has no name. 

Not metalmark.

No nutria. 

Not cyclops. 

Handcuffed, he is transmuted

into an object of care. 

Beaten, an object of indignation. 

Yet still an object. 

Objects can be stacked like cordwood 

into a hot rig. 

Assigned a single bottle of water

and a corner for relief. 

The door of the rig makes magic:

one moment, nothing.

The next, a taxidermist’s shop. 

Some nameless objects become

priceless in death. 

Death follows and is also marketable. 

A logotype designed by refugees

sells in clenched teeth. 

The shirt that signals virtue

sold cheap at the rosary. 

The price of a man wrapping

a shirt around his daughter:

            her sound

                        her shape

                                    her diminishing size.