Tuesday, April 22, 2014

The Statistic

( At the border morgue, Pima Arizona.)
They move another corpse
into cold storage. Shelved
and shadowed by the option
to be claimed
or cremated.
Earlier, they found her
on a hillside half--sheltered
with a fence and the silk gauze
of thistles.
She lay there nameless
owning nothing
but black hair
and the slim choir of bones
beneath her skin --
that echoed a long crossing.
The dry heat had come
like a sin eater
consuming the miseries
of her young life.
The afternoon  sun
was white as salt,
and the soil – brittle
as the crust of old bread.

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