Cynthia was Here

Dedicated to the young women who lost their lives
And continue to die in Juarez Mexico

She takes his eyes,
Peels them
Off of her skin,
A scab she wore,
A bracelet she found
And her hair was dark,
Like her black olive eyes,
She never gave
Her love to a man,
Like the story told
By her Grandmother,
When the crickets
Sang sad boleros
Near the wash tub

Cynthia said “no” to her Tio,
Who chased her
Into the tall grass
In her 14th autumn,
No, to the nasty dollar,
To lipstick promises,
To a world away
From her father,
Plucking chickens,
Her Mother
Combing the baby Jesus

Cynthia was a sister,
Could have been a mother,
The little girl smiling
With grasshopper legs
Folded under a blue dress

She never knew
The name of sadness,
Only, that she had
To tuck away her breasts,
Two brown birds
Napping under her blouse

And before night dragged in,
Like a sack of nothing,
After punching out
Of the Maquiladoras,
She walked down
The broken cement and rock
To the river to dream

Night is a black cape
El Chamuko likes to wear,
Likes to kick it into the air,
But Cynthia knew Chamuko,
So it was natural
For her to blur the memory,
The steam of his teeth,
His cigarette butt eyes;
He sleeps now,
Loosing grip
Of his warm Carta Blanca,
Losing his life like a man
Who is already dead

Cynthia was formed
By an indigenous God,
Patterned after
The wind That circled
The pyramids,
Her brown hands
Were meant to touch
Sacred things,
Offerings to the clouds,
To feed the fortune cookie
Mouth of her newborn

But her time was trampled
By the weak and wicked,
Who lost love
A long time ago,
Down dusty trails
Of twisted takes
Of little girls like her,
Like Cynthia;
Torn Tennis shoes,
Lips of a Mazahua girl,
Descending to the river

She was the sun’s greatest love,
But now the sun
Shines over the mountain,
Over the white promise
Painted for everyone to see,
And the calm creek
That was her heart,
Will empty into the river,
And into the dusk,
Her spirit will blend,
A voice, her voice,
Reminding us all
That Cynthia was here.