silence was improvising in my eyes in this tender fog between one moment and this moment and I could see the old love approaching to invade me to intoxicate me with its hypnotic violence this love like a fossilized wood in their gaze came to visit me again with so many faces so many whispers it was as if angels had descended on the barren land and with their unthought hands were tenderly carressing the old bones unsung what else could have I done than open my eyes and dream the palimpsest of forgotten dreams forged in the greatest intensity of all the fleeting moments in which they blinked
(I need to shelter my heart from the silence of decaying leaves from the violence of life destroying itself)
feast for the ancestors who were famished embrace the familiar damage bisou bisou, thankful for the room used to be so stuffy in the old place i left my feelings of inadequacy in my old ways old space, watch the page turn displace metaphors about the days turn is getting older just getting further from my innocent joy? is getting older just pretending that i feel joy? a glimpse of it underneath the books that weigh heavy on my brain trying to understand everything but neglecting vain trying to fulfill the expectations expected of me for my ancestors who were famished i am grateful for the feast
Grief. I hear that word a lot. A feeling, grieving, an action. It affects us in the deepest parts of our beings; we push back so hard that it festers and bursts. I'm grieving and I should be honest about it. I'm grieving for my ancestors who went through trauma and continued on, I'm grieving for my kin lost to the same rough waters we swim through now, I'm grieving for the ongoing traumatizing events we face in everyday life, I'm grieving for the me I could've been if only I'd been loved as I love myself now, I'm grieving for the future we're working so hard for, I'm grieving from this pain I'm burdened with. Thank you grief. I'm here to hold you and walk into love with you.
Light and smoke blossoms from the barrel of a gun as they lay waste to the only home I have ever known and stake their claim on this land where my ancestors toiled under a smoldering sun, wrinkles on face, sweat on back, callouses on hand.
Stolen plunder rots in gold and marble jars while I watch my children collapse from hunger and my husband hang himself on that old tree, watered by the blood of generations gasping for air under the banner of the unfree.
Tonight, I cry out to Mother, Father, Aunt, Uncle, since the voices of my children have dried up and my husband’s body has returned to the earth, but I stand, an emaciated shell, nonetheless standing with one more scream, one last sob, another step, I shall carry this banner until we all become free.