their mouths are painted with nightingales
so they sing in voices thick
with over-ripe pears & sharpen stones.
they are Mexican
or from some place no one really thinks about.
above their hips,
3 small stars tremble
when the dead walk in their dreams
& the earth of their fathers
& their uncles & their brothers howls for them,
howls for their bones to gnaw on.
there are no songs in English
that describe how they feel.
no word for how angry they hope.
© LeeAnn Heringer