Señoritas mummied in Juarez sun,
pants around their ankles, beetle holes bored
in black cheeks, blank eyes. Pakistani boys
bend over looms. Did I fail to mention
the price of light? What looks like luxury
is. God’s compound eye, we witness the world,
his body, burned by the halogen bulb.
Fire in the east, fire in the west. Plenty
to trust the truth, plenty to deny it,
and none but lucifer to know better.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
