Some generations ago,
you were a Zapatista
inside your great-grandmother's
womb, black eye sockets of
revolution, carrying roses
with the pink blown out,
dando gritos in earshot
of the Americas.
But now your doubt
is strewn across the room
like petals from dead
maravillas,
even in this space you rent
where spiritual warriors
pray for your country
and you can finally sleep
through the night.
Listen,
amigo de los desamparados,
this is your time, again,
beyond gut-level fear
and black and white film:
The explosions just keep coming,
and you are chewing on history,
and never let it be said
that all you could do was cry.
-Carmen Calatayud
Used by permission.
From
In the Company of Spirits (Press 53, 2012)
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