— 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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