They never cared about us! The band aid is despondent,
a $465 filing fee, a manilla envelope full of medical records,
report cards, bills, a B-2, before when my friends got their licenses,
before when water was more than sacred, before when they crossed
la frontera.The protesters never cared about the boy in my wife’s classroom,
anxious and sobbing, will his parents still be home, will his sister know
what is happening, will I bury my head in the kitchen as the blues take my
father away? The elected took too many steps to the right.
I am anxious and sleeping in a glass case like a monument to Vladimir Lenin
for every turista to visit my trauma and check a box on a list on a tax return
labeled “I volunteered.” I am anxious and hurting you again,
out of the words to tell you the screens hate me, out of the cradle
and into a 2:00 AM panic attack, into a bombing in Aleppo
where a boy is barely breathing, I can’t settle on a position,
the hospital was hit with chlorine gas and retweets to save his life,
my notifications are bright like our bank account. Someday my privilege
will be gone again and I will prove to the woman from Argentina that our
fight is for everyone, not just los jovenes in $40,000 Jeeps,
not just the policy blankets that protect those who fit so perfectly into a box.
A friend told me it is important we make art and I want to find
the holy space where we travel slowly through time,
where my anger turned to words turned to action tempered to anger
again guarantees safety from the wolves that now gnaw at all of our feet.