I’ve been told my voice is ink, seeping into pages,
Destroying careless thoughts, tattooing idealistic
Believers into the margins.
I’ve been written into the seams of
Tomes, tombs; I watch their colors crash into my hands
Like Joan of Arc taking New Orleans
I find myself out of my element.
Here I tread on tired souls, tire soles, to find my way home.
Como El Cid, mi vistoso las arcas están llenas de decepción, así
I write poetry in languages long dead,
(They taste like honey and smell bitter-sweet)
and sing in scribbled love notes
(They sound rapturous, singing me to sleep)
I am told “Wishful thinking has no place here...
Look before you. Grab your coffee mug.
You’ll know the truth.”
I’ve held my hand out only to be pushed away each time;
Now I evade, explain, to keep from maiming
Everything I hold dear. I clutch in my fist
to my chest to create a better tomorrow.
Here I make my stand against British infantry men
116 years have been far too long
I soar empty handed through battles long waged
My seams are torn, pages scattered
My story has been left open
For you to conclude.