Left-turn arrow:       dis-jointed green
            obedience and the window
                                                            rolled down, driver's side

flying around the corner:
and then nothing
but vibrations, exhaust. This is not
said

wetbackniggerdykekikechinkspic    sissy

in diasporic reversal
from the four-door-power-lock
to the hubcap, plastic, computer chip
assembly line in Juarez

to the girl boarding a bus      the 5am morning
shift   rosary swaying from the rear
view mirror:;  bob and lure cutting
the chill and Selena
                                  tinned through speakers,
Dulce angelita    De quien eres tu?

and her voice is a border,
and her song sits
on the bus, and
her song flirts with the windows
                                              although they are
                                              cinched up shut

like the bodies
walking outside
in that gap      between street
lights.
The girl's absence              sounds like
a cocked pistol click          a nipple bitten off

She is too much for the hard ground
to absorb, but people find
traces of her in their wells,
and people find her in puddles
                                                    a palimpsest,
                                                    of faints and shades, and they know
and they know
later they will find

her body in the desert

cracked and scarred

her new shoes stubbed into the sand

and they will try to remember
which cross they painted in white
on a telephone pole is for her.

About the Poet

Agatha Beins teaches in the Department of Women's Studies at Texas Woman's University, rides her bicycle around Denton, TX, and spends time volunteering at an amazing local farm. You can find her work in journals such as The Laurel Review, Blackbird, Pebble Lake Review, Newfound, Devil's Lake, Sinister Wisdom, and Women: A Cultural Review.