Hermanas de Juarez
(Para Las Hermanas Who Were Murdered in Juarez)
Hermanas,
hijas,
madres,
comadres,
primas,
nietas,
slim mujeres de bronce,
palo largo
y negro,
they glide thru la noche,
rushing home from work,
free from stale factory air,
their hearts are filed con carino por familia,
thoughts that flow from Juarez
to Puebla, Chiapas, Sonora, Chihuahua,
they are young,
con esperanzas,
suenos de manana on their eyes,
but there are men,
duendes en mascaras,
who hate and desire these women,
sin respeto,
sin alma,
they hunt in shadow of darkness,
hide in corners,
spring out with silent scream,
murder the sangre of our creators,
there is no mercy
in this tearing of skin,
ripping of flesh,
there is no conscience
in these breath-takers,
no remorse for their murders,
las hermans de Juarez
lay bare and dreamless
in fields and rivers,
sin nombres,
their faces are strangers in this place,
that even La Muerte has deserted in fear,
they are discovered at dawn,
by garbage collectors,
other hermanas rushing to work,
their bodies are harvested
like weeds of the field,
limp and damp from morning's dew,
cameras flash,
hungry for flesh,
daily parade of blurred faces,
las hermanas are stacked in neat rows,
marked by dates, no mas,
where they lay forgotten and voiceless,
somewhere a madre,
an abuelita,
knows their name,
somewhere they light candles,
hoping la luz
will discover the face of their invisible hija.

Phil Goldvarg
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