Erika L. Sánchez

Admit it — you wanted the end with a serpentine greed. How to negotiate that strangling mist, the fibrous whisper? To cease to exist and to die are two different things entirely. But you knew this, didn’t you? Some days you knelt on coins in those yellow hours. You lit a flame to your shadow and ate scorpions with your naked fingers. So touched by the sadness of hair in a dirty sink. The malevolent smell of soap. When instead of swallowing a fistful of white pills, you decided to shower, the palm trees nodded in agreement, a choir of crickets singing behind your swollen eyes. The masked bird turned to you with a shred of paper hanging from its beak. At dusk, hair wet and fragrant, you cupped a goat’s face and kissed his trembling horns. The ghost? It fell prostrate, passed through you like a swift and generous storm.

Highway of Death — the indifference of snakes. Sky is ripe and everywhere the colors are breaking.¿Quién es el jefe más jefe?

According to a report from the University of San Diego’s Justice in Mexico project, 138,000 people have been murdered in Mexico since 2006. They call it the corner of heaven: a laboratory, a foot at the throat of an empire. Before the holy dirt, the woman with the feline gait waits with tangled hair, mouth agape — the letter X marked on what’s left of her breasts and face.Nuestra Belleza Mexicana