And, in my womb, in my sovereign person, in my elopement with the Most High,
I know a new world is coming.
We are a suggestable lot.
Surely, I shall adhere when Mother Earth speaks, and she has spoken.
That is why we are tired and remorseful.
She, more than anyone, knows the woman’s struggle day to day;
from not being able to walk the street at night to not getting the well-deserved promotion;
from being penetrated by fracking to rape in this colonization to incarceration of all.
Little is lost in translation.
You have enumerated your part.
Now, I shall take what is mine.
I shall say we are warranted an arrest.
We have capitulated to the test.
We have worn crowns in the arena.
We have been fed to the lions.
We have been raped in the markets.
We have been accosted in our own homes.
We are tired of relentlessly trying to protect ourselves.
I write because I am tired.
I write because I know what justice sounds like.
Women artists are castrated at the thorn.
And, yet, the rose blooms.
Women artists are an epidemic and they should be heard.
We shall be the ones to cure the disease.
It takes great imagination to show them off.
I have been tranquil, only, to find myself misbehaving at the Barrio Renaissance.
The poet dances a lot.
She gives her mercies to the masses; she hallucinates.
And, one day…one day my hallucinations will come true.
There is a weapon of mass destruction hidden within her that no one can touch.
She shall recover it when it is time.
There is too much mercy and not enough justice around.
There is sufficient activism to denote a new civil rights movement.
So, tell the tale.
Tell how you came to protest.
Tell how you admonished the naysayers.
I am an adulteress.
I do little to add legitimacy to any movement.
Alas, it could be that poetry is on the rise and that fascism is in decline.
I feel the Gypsies and angels and aliens visiting me.
The time is now.
O, le, le, le, le.
Underneath so much earth, I live.