Bloody Half-Birth & An Afternoon Reparenting On An Empty Playground
This freedom used to elude me, /
but now, a smile untangles /
This freedom used to elude me, /
but now, a smile untangles /
Here’s to the Chicanos /
The Mexicanos /
Our Indigenous ancestors /
At times, only sometimes /
in the brightness of the moon /
the eyes of the leaves /
signal the course of things /
Rasquachismo is us, and we are rasquachismo. /
I speak in tongues– /
words of both Spanish /
and English chime /
and dance in resistance /
and spite. /
[…] a mess, /
you wake up elevated in a cloud of grief, birdsong /
is floating through an open window like a promise. /
Yet the well dried up and the birds fled. /
So the people bowed before the king and asked for guidance. /
When we speak our languages, we claim our culture; we claim what’s ours, and like our ancestors, when we speak, there’s power.
The songs of ayer won’t ever fade, /
Your guitar’s strings I strum, /
And your old records still play. /