Mistaken

A friend of mine,
Friends of his parents
Lost their son in Tijuana. 
When they found him
They wanted to know, 
Understandably,
How he had died.
The authorities told them 
They didn’t want to know. 
They insisted they did.
The authorities insisted that 
They really didn’t.
The parents agreed.
They didn’t want to know 
But they needed to.
The authorities sighed
And told them
Their son had been killed
For his organs,
His body picked clean
Like gleaners pick a field. 
And they knew then that 
Somewhere someone
Had their son’s liver, 
Someone his kidneys, 
Someone his heart,
Someone his eyes.
They flew down to Tijuana, 
Thinking they might help 
Find the people
Who killed their son.
On their last day there
Before flying home,
They were walking
Through the open air
Market when a young man 
Who looked nothing like 
Their son looked at them
As if in recognition,
The blue eyes brightening 
Like they’d seen them before. 
But when they got closer
They began to dim. 
They’d been mistaken.