Skin still wet with mother’s / grief. I brought my baby / to them, I admit it.

Each morning you blitzkrieg the tavern and pineapple conucos, / turn the rivers into arsenic, lock my kin up in sheet metal factories, / committing autopsies on their bodies while they are still alive. /

for hundreds of years  /         i am given     the gestures of freedom  without birds the hush of  mist   / awakening on my bones