Page 23 - GRANADA
P. 23

 Dead stop. I’m trying not to think about
how my brother’s middle school is teaching him warmongering as an elective:
hands on Venezuela, preachers on children and jingoists applauding the vibrado of lost humanity. My margin notes say we should start over,
pilgrim to geothermal vents and live our lives among the resilient, those crustaceans and fish abiding by only the fire in their veins.
Yes, g*d, let’s shed these vessels and give our spirits
to the universe that birthed us. Where better than her depths?
The voices we remember sound like history deliberating reality— What do we know of what happened? What will we choose to forget?
Police presence, undemocratic intervention, loved ones painted on the road,
ceaseless lashes of calculated starvation, power masquerading as freedom.
Do you remember where we began? When anything was real?
I used to, but I’ve gone the way of the blesséd volcano,
destroyed with one punch. My abuela always hated my darker half.

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