Making the Mundane Conspicuous

Running through the forest 

as twilight closes in,  

my body shivering,  

sweat rolling down my forehead,

merging with tears. 

Will they silence me forever tonight?

Each step feels heavier.

Will they toast to my long-desired death? 

I gasp for air.

Will they torture my family? 

These thoughts press against my chest,

as a knot tightens in my throat. 

It’s only a matter of time 

until they hold me accountable for my “crimes.”

I’m guilty of writing what was never meant to surface, 

names, 

tactics,

places, 

the 

tick, 

tick, 

tick

          of reality. 

And now, 

I pay for it 

in blood, 

fear,

in the silence, 

that awaits me.

Bomb. Gas. Bomb.

The sky, cloudy gray, 

buildings folding into themselves, 

names swallowed by the flames.

A border crossed

without a period. 

Somewhere, a chamber fills with language:

resolutions stacked in desks with colorful flags, 

hands raised, 

by those who wrote the fire. 

The sentences do not end.

they spill, 

from one soil into another, 

from one justification into the next:

Security. 

Peace.

Stability. 

Paragraphs polished clean, 

that carry ash. 

A chorus of signatures 

beneath

a burning sky.

“The poetry is in the pity” 

Can you hear me say that? 

I call to you,

not for comfort, 

but for permission. 

I want your voice in mine, 

to wear it as a talisman

against my past. 

My hands betray me 

every time I write. 

The pain rises

from the inside. 

At night, 

I drop bombs, 

each one returning 

with my handwriting on it. 

I kneel at your grave, 

before our good Lord, 

half of me listening, 

half already gone. 

Dulce et Decorum est, 

the lie persists,

wearing 

a different face. 

Please,

teach me 

how to survive.

You stayed quiet

when the bombs unroofed homes. 

You stayed quiet

when the kids learned hunger

before their names. 

You stayed quiet, 

when families were separated

at the border. 

You always stayed quiet,

until it reached you. 

Did you see your memorial?

No marble. 

No anthem. 

Just the photograph,

pinned to a fence. 

The sun bleaching your name, 

and the silence you kept, 

now keeping you. 

The wind carries my hometown. 

like pieces of broken glass. 

The smell of cornbread.

The taste of pumpkin pie. 

The breeze of the Pacific, 

and the warmth of the sand. 

I close my eyes

and breathe it in, 

as if memory 

were enough to return me. 

But I’m persona non grata 

in my own state. 

Jus soli. 

Jus sanguinis.

Principles once written 

in stone,

now loosened,

to strip me of my identity. 

Who am I

When my own ground is legislated against me?

I stand here 

holding a place

that no longer holds me.

Chatbot. 

Prompt. 

Instant Response. 

Again,

I tell myself 

this is the last time. 

Your answers arrive 

before I finish thinking, 

reliable, precise, immediate. 

I return 

without deciding to. 

Your cursor blinks. 

I wait for it.

Your words fill my mind 

before they are mine. 

Clean. 

Approved. 

Safe.