They speak of teeth like shuddered bouquets, weeping mothers of teenage Coahuila sons, rumors that make women slide double deadbolts. She’s stranded in the graveyard painting a small cross celestial blue. They whisper tunnels through the desert, the underground shining trolley pumped by paid hands, tracks that tread a shocked living room, a flat screen the size of a theatre. Someone’s truck rides the cargo elevator where everyone runs coyote crossing the desert past half dead cacti and someone’s got that boy’s heart in a box cooler, his spleen, his fucking lung collapsed. His mother’s knees buried in the dirt like half sprung purpled tulips, bruised and never fully coming back to life ‘cause they found his ribcage emptied. Shush, someone’s weighing a stash of cash, his doctor kneeling in an underground hospital of some city with a name we know how to pronounce. Shush, the ribcage cracked open to accept the still pulsing heart. Shush, the stilled rumors of refrigerated trucks, and pistol suicide drivers. We’re shrieking in horror over found bodies back by the river. We sound like sirens that disrupt night, that make packs of wild dogs howl. At least they left the eyes, but eyes are useless without kidneys and spleens, and especially the stolen heart. Eyes are useless to his mother who digs her fingernails into the soil, ‘cause she can only imagine lying herself down.