Three hundred years leaves little legible. The dates of mothers dead at twenty-five beside their daughters dead at nine. Winged skulls, winged cherubs, winged
Señoritas mummied in Juarez sun, pants around their ankles, beetle holes bored in black cheeks, blank eyes. Pakistani boys bend over looms. Did I
It is the perfect evening for sitting in a faux leopard chair, surrounded by velvet paintings draped with tinsel boas of red and silver