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by Sharmagne Leland-St. John and Ed Bennet

The pampas grass whispered
the eulogy,
yet no angels came to sing
or brush their wing
across your bloodied brow.
You were an inconvenient secret
buried with the city's refuse.

40 pesos a day
is a famine wage,
a bare minimum
yet provides medicine for Madre,
leche para los niños
to warm their bellies.

Maquilas are such easy prey…

In Juarez they say nothing,
not even the names of the dead,
the feminicidios whose bones
are broken in the stillness
of another border town night,

and only the grasses
whisper their name!

It is not safe to walk the streets
in Lote Bravo
in daylight or at dusk.

Too many young girls
lay in the cotton fields
raped and murdered
for the demon's sexual delight.
Pink crosses on black telephone poles
the only memorial.
and no one to blame.

their voices, without echo, keen
"It's not safe to walk the streets alone"

Only the grasses
whisper their name!


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