Thin woman wedded to this world
by charred steel wire,
they light fires, call you Flaquita. They buy
your homemade .45 rounds
with disdain on their faces and good gold.
You are not to be told.
Your silence breaks down
the highest walls. Whole towns fall
to that cool quiet -- what it sounds like
when you listen to them.
You hear every prayer they dare
utter at a shrine
some outlaw carved for you
in offerings of bone.
A pobrecita genuflects before your forbidden grin.
Behind her, a rangy dog stalks alone.
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