this time, we stay silent
like justice at the edge of the world:
we tell ourselves that blood is just blood,
that if we bound each other in history,
history will suffocate the memory,
and memory will suffocate the misery.
“we’ll deal with it later.”
we'll deal with our shadows bleeding down
our tongues to haunt us, our past thick with
excuses to keep us whole, our voices threaded in
silence to protect us.
this time, we stay silent
but when does later become too late
and when does history become some unjust mystery
as we flee from the pleas,
our heartbeats like a eulogy
for families across the shore,
for generations caving in on themselves like a heart attack,
for all the narratives we’ve locked inside our borders.
this time, we part our lips
the way underdogs do,
the way children speak but aren’t heard,
the way families cry out names but are torn apart anyway,
the way little girls scream but are still hostage in their bodies.
we part our lips the way we’re taught to
before our words go out like a housefire.
as if that is even enough, as if anyone
ever listened to anyone anyway.
this time, we speak
the way challengers do, because the only way to
“deal with it later” is to deal a deck of blood,
and the only way to get everyone
to listen to everyone in every way
is to speak first.
