OK.
"The Women of Juárez."
There are bones, strewn, and arroyos,
and fields here that weep in their marrow.
I'm going to adjust this a bit.
Bones of little girls, there's skulls and femurs.
Bones of teenagers, small rib cages and delicate metatarsals.
Bones of young women, pelvises and spinal columns.
20 years of bones scattered like casual debris
from over 600 girls.
Their laughter and giggles broken from their mouths.
Their tears burning the dry soil like acid.
Even the desert sparrows sit dazed on their branches.
Even the lizards shrink from their own shadows.
In houses all over Ciudad Juárez,
mothers and fathers sit stupefied by their windows.
Their hands tremble as they reach out
to touch their daughters, their breathing daughters.
What has happened to the beautiful girls of Juárez,
the ones who blushed at their quinceañeras,
who walked the dry fields at dusk,
never returning from work at the factories?
Who raped and tortured them, burned and disposed of them?
What kind of men are these?
What kind of men, I ask you, who have
black bile in their veins, whose minds overflow with toxins,
whose hearts are concrete.
And why, oh, why has no one stopped them?
I assume everyone knows about the women of Juárez.
There was really wonderful, years ago,
art installation in Tijuana of pink crosses,
hundreds of them representing the women of Juárez who have
disappeared.
That was very powerful.