In Boston a white man
attacks two women
because they have their heads covered
with a veil, a hijab
He punches, kicks, curses their wombs
She does not defend herself
she stand
taking all the blows
for us
The white man leaves his rage on her body
A dark skinned male has set off the bombs.
A dark skinned male has ordered the drone attacks.
Dark skinned males are on the war's front-lines, in prison, unemployed, guilty.
The epicenter of the explosionsfrom Al-Mutanabbi to Boylston Street
From cultural centers and bookstores to the marathon's finish line?
Men with guns, bombs, nukes & IEDs, with domination on their minds
War widows, war orphans, war veterans, the war President, war economies, war schools, war children, war, war, war, war.
Car-bombs, suicide bombers, B-52 bombers, Drone missiles,
We are all now
hibakusha.
Strontium 90 in the hummingbird's flurry of wings
Uranium depleted peoples, the radiation of hate
How will our story end?
What story will we tell,
who will hear us?
What scale
of tragedy
of loss
of anguish
of implosion
do you need
so that you will want
to hear and tell our story
to share the scars
to heal the wounded fists
to acknowledge our disappeared
to unbury our ancestors?
A tsunami, a Ciudad Juárez,
an Oakland drive-by,
a drone attack,
the boys and men imprisoned in Guantánamo,
a sister with blood cancer,
a flattened Haiti,
a woman beaten by a man every thirty seconds,
a mother with her children living in the street,
an unpublished writer-dishwasher,
a day laborer who speaks neither english nor spanish,
an abandoned baby,
a burned out barrio,
a hunger for company in the solitude of poverty,
begging in front of bookstores,
a student in debt for life,
a man left alone who no one will touch,
a Cuban rafter,
an indigenous migrant farm-worker,
a war widow,
a junkie,
a loner in the middle of everyone?
A dream for a people without dreams
from a dream without people?
Books not bombs?
Marathons not massacres?
Let the drones be drones again,
pollinating plants and humans
How many times do we say:
An Iraqi, a Pakistani, an Afghanistani, a Mexican, a Muslim, a Christian, a Buddhist, a Maya, a migrant, a woman's
life
is worth the same
cries the same
has the same family
has the same desires and ecstasies
Europe does not have to die for América Indígena to live
Blood for oil.
The violence
amputates the arms of violinists and herbalists
tears up our languages into oblivion
dissects screams
leaves a crater on my tongue
muting the pleasures of our lips
The best anti-war medicine:
The land belongs to herself,
We belong to the land
where our bones are standing, armed, at attention
a gleaming silvery army of ruptured laughter
We are all Baghdad, Birmingham, Boston...
We have more cities, towns, streets, plazas in waiting
waiting for their crater,
their dismembered,
their wailing
their rebirth,
their blast-off for the stars
peaceful cafés,
homes for everyone,
schools that are schools
freedom that is freedom
Languages that speak,
that do not growl threats & carries them out.
