Gedicht: The Pink Crosses

The Pink Crosses Amanda Auchter

Ciudad Juárez, Mexico In this wild city, we are bones scattered in the valley’s grave. An apron, a white tennis shoe, a face gone missing. A mother leans over the dust scattered in the valley’s grave. An apron around her waist, on her way to work. The missing. A mother leans over the dust and carves her daughter’s initials. Her name around her waist, on her way to work. The bones wait to be found; there are always bones. She prays and carves her daughter’s initials. Her name, Veronica, and the others, Esmerelda, Barbara, Brenda; our bones wait to be found; there are always bones. She prays to the gardens tethered to the field of pink crosses: Veronica, and the others, Esmerelda, Barbara, Brenda, our roses, wild poppies, fragile blooms of morning glories, to the gardens tethered to the field of pink crosses: the wooden fence marked ¡Justicia!, the desert empty of roses, wild poppies, fragile blooms of morning glories, for the women who walk home each night. The unfinished earth.      Copyright @ 2014 by Amanda Auchter.  About This Poem “This poem was inspired by a photograph I came across of all the pink crosses in Ciudad Juárez that serve as memorials to the hundreds of women and young girls who have been murdered over the past few decades, many of whom have never been found. Stylistically, I wanted to experiment with form in this poem in order to capture both the horrifying emotions that fueled these murders and the emotions of the people who have lost their daughters, wives, and sisters.” —Amanda Auchter Amanda Auchter is the author of two books of poems, most recently The Wishing Tomb (Perugia Press, 2012). She teaches at Lone Star College and lives in Houston, Texas.