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
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,
watered. Yesterday, our mother said,
“My high heels are killing me.
Let’s go back to the funeral.”
You were always
her favorite. Slow cooking a roast
melts the tough tissue between the muscle fibers;
tender meat remains.
Remember the time
I caught you pissing
on a dog? You turned
away from me. In the small of your back
I thought I saw a face.
broken nose. It was a mask.
I yanked it from your flesh.
I wear it often.