Sinaloa Tracing Portraits
The son of the slain man stands over the slain - feeling
his power, like his father's killer before him. His gun
at his side -blood on his boots. Somewhere, his victim's
child becomes him. The daughter of assault must walk,
alone, from the train. The same dark streets, her
father's former place. Only once did she not make it
home. It took one night to lose the race. Drawing over
perceived portraits, exit the sound of wind. Enter
strange silence, like sleep after violence, while
satisfied sleep, too deep to forget, still makes real of
the imagined. The son of the son of the slain man is
slain. His killer was born by blasts from two guns. The
third wife to weep sees pain build in her son. A man
hires six men to kill his great-grandson. The
granddaughter of assault hears laughter. She wonders how
to make that sound. Her voice has been built to be soft
and silent. Horrors, taught to fear, will be found.
