To Juan Doe #234

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 were taught 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, my mouth 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. Split lip, broken nose. It was a mask. I yanked it from your flesh. I wear it often.