A desolate wooden white chair lies in place of her.

Guitars lingering above their heads like

the weight of death’s fresh news.

Behind the chair, a muted handprint

fading like her will to live.

Guests slumped along the wall

linear as her heart rate.

Worries fiercely prancing on beat

to the Mexican Jarabe Tapito. 

Shadows suffocate sanity as

arms grasp the heavens for help.

Her skin egg-white as the silk of the hems.

Her mouth sagged in unison to the fatigued mariachi.

Her coffin roasted hazelnut like the wood panels.

Her desertion left my mind the epitome of El Jaleo.