Mistaken
A friend of mine,
Friends of his parents
Lost their son in Tijuana.
When they found him,
They wanted to know,
Naturally, how he died.
The authorities told them
They didn’t want to know.
They insisted they did.
The authorities insisted
They really didn’t.
The parents agreed.
They didn’t want to know.
They needed to.
The authorities sighed
And told them
Their son had been killed
For his organs.
The authorities didn’t say,
Because they didn’t have to,
That they picked him clean
Like gleaners pick a field,
Nor did they say that
Somewhere someone
Bore their son’s liver,
Someone else his kidneys,
Someone else his heart,
Someone else his lungs.
They went down there
To look for him anyway,
Thinking they might
Recognize his eyes,
Even if they were in
Someone else’s head.
At the sight of them
One pair seemed to brighten
As if in recognition.
They had seen them before.
But as they were getting closer
They began to dim.
They were mistaken.