Lit Issue 2018 | Poetry

When I think of Guadalajara, I think of Stars and Graveyard Sand

My grandmother died when i was four. in a hospital while we all slept in her room, all of us children. My mother and her sisters had been gone for a few nights, time seemed infinite. I didn’t know what was happening. She’s dead. It told me as it stood by a plant, Laughed at me, at her.
Un bulto.
my mother tried to clothe me, the next day. i remember refusing the teal sweatpants she wanted to put underneath my dress when she told me that grandma was gone.
Si, mami. ya se. I tried to tell her that something at night had already told me. I just don’t remember what language I used
after her death one night, so dark I couldn’t hear the birds. the graveyard where she was buried a few blocks away. dogs barking. remembering the stories we told of a man who walked the streets with a chain. i walked through the house, parts of the house open to the moon where it could follow me
I climbed, the steps at night. My feet threatening to get stuck in the metal stairs. My mother said that my grandmother had become a star. i found a way to say goodbye.

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Lit Issue 2018 | Poetry

Children of the Dead

Trapped monarchs die inside
Before they become dust
It is cruel to see a monarch in
A cage, winged flesh ripped
In the name of nationalism
In keeping the wings white
What a cruel vision
To see fluttering dreams
Encased.
Have you ever held a child’s
hand?
Told them, no
So sternly?
Stripping them of humanity?