On Día de los Muertos some here choose to picnic with their loved ones by their graves, and some then strive with Gallo beer to kill mosquitoes of the mind that can draw blood. Out front a wobbly Rambo sheds his shirt and dares the other men to come and fight. In corners of red eyes I see bright tears. Thin dogs with hanging dugs pace back and forth. Their glance tells me there’s nothing more to say.