Abuela’s Ashes
They sense you,
you know,
your songs spill to the streets.
They hear you,
in the line outside,
discussing a new centrist party,
that will definitely work out,
and an article you read,
in Lenny,
about why ironic, hipster racism,
is actually the best weapon against the far right,
or something.
They are hunting you,
as you enter the club,
but you are safe.
They watch you,
you know,
as the long suffering bar staff,
patiently wait for you to finish talking,
about this totally amazing girl you saw,
singing new wave acoustic death metal,
at the local fair trade coffee shop.
They can see that the bar staff want you to shut up,
order a drink,
and go away.
They see you,
dancing with your friends,
but,
as always,
you are safe.
They approach you.
They smile at you,
and from the pockets of their pressed suits,
they produce,
a bag of my abuela’s ashes.
You smile too,
and you are suddenly dancing in a new way,
that only you and they understand,
and into your hand,
goes my abuela’s ashes,
maybe some other people too,
but don’t worry,
just as it always is,
you are safe.
You escape,
once again to the bathroom.
They are no longer hunting you.
You inhale and return to the party,
clothes,
red,
blood on your hands,
up your nose,
but you,
you already know what I’ll say,
you are safe,
just like always,
you are safe,
and so are they,
buying and selling abuelas and tias,
hermanos and hermanas,
from Colombia,
Peru,
Mexico,
Bolivia,
and now,
on your own streets,
your city’s blood,
is all across your face,
grinded down to pleasant powder,
the human cost,
in a format you don’t have to think about,
so you are safe.
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