On el Día de los Muertosyou crept into the cellfor your mammogramwhere a skeleton in gray wigspun the wheel, pressingyour nipple between cold plates,the walls red as hibiscus,red as transfusions, and soonthe surgeons danced around youwith clicking knives, your breastmarked with black grease:Cut along the dotted line—your breast a dartboard, lushpapaya packed with yellow fat,and while you lay on the table,your gown dotted with poppies,the doctors installed drainsover your corazón sagradoand threw the old breast in a bucketfor someone to steal like a relicand display in a roadside shrinepainted river blue, agave green,serenaded by skeletonsplucking guitars, whisperedabout by pilgrims afraid of the dark,lit by candles of Saint Judewith glowing coins over his heart.Mi amiga, you have no grave,they burned your scarred body,your piano clanged down the stairswithout you, and your paintingsshed petals like lágrimasin the dark: bluish garlic,purple coneflower, and the hot pinkzinnias that once lit your night.