The echo is a blender crunching
Toll the breaking
Snapping
Crumbling
Of the body
Rumbling of the boy
Crumbs
Wandering
Murder
Marred uttering dark
Stuttering and stolen breath
Fluently from a still-beating corpse
Murder — my history is a prolonged breaking
What has been ground to slivers
My son — dust
My blood and soul!
He dies
I can almost hum along to the tune of his passing
First chorus of the white man’s history
Bullet beat siren song
My son dies
Es verdad?
Does his blood love the lead?
In my body my blood screams the color of a midwife being burnt alive
Outside of my body
My blood seeps into the sidewalk
Through the same paths worms surface with after rain
My country’s aquifer is filled
Dump trucks of blood Packed — pacified
He dies
My ribs are an earthquake
Every particle of dust I am becoming is an earthquake
Look — the sun spilling bloody over the horizon
Son spilled his life into the soil
Silently broken into his useful parts
He is the soil
A whiff of rot
A whole forest born under concrete
Behind the Writing
“I write in order to process my experiences and the ways that I relate to the word. I expand questions, moments, and emotions into poems in order to better understand myself in public (understanding that not filtering myself is radical and political).”
Writer To Writer Literary Journal 