Broken gavels and poisoned Mayan coffee
lie in piles of splintered wood, pools of toxins.
Ghost citizens dance, ephemeral feet, arms
torn and steaming, to the rhythm of thunder
choking across deforested cash-cropped hills
and to the thunking beat of cartel machetes
and automatic fire caroming off concrete
and degrading steel behind which Federales
sit and smoke the remains of oracular crows
in a vain attempt to predict the next hurricane.
The new government's conciliatory pleas fall
on scream-deafened, gold-adorned ears.
Every day is the Day of the Dead in Mexico.
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