Queerodactyl VII

— Roy G. Guzmán

Woke up like strangulated terracotta     empress.     Woke up like
                measled fantasia sewage.     The goldmines are revamped.
We’ve defaulted on our loans.     Self-portrait as co-     opted ravine.
                Dish-washing roaches in mold.     This song has blown
piñatas, conga lines     of those disappeared.     Why won’t you gob
                your empathy for this killing?     We believe in mortal
flight     & so our deaths are suspended,     obedient escalade.
                We rummage through Icarus’ bravery as if we weren’t ourselves
tumbling     through the meteorological chaos     of our ancestry.
                I have stared into the eyes     of someone with borrowed skin,
borrowed name,     servant to the wrong     verge of the river.
                She knotted her hair     to the strobe lights,     as gaffs passed
her body undeterred.     Later,     she smeared her gloom
                on the outside walls     of the earth.     Some will say
that is how history begat history.     I’ll say
                glory to fate’s incorrigible nature     & towards which
we violently stroll.


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