Two Poems
Maybe there’s not much more to it than drinking our silly lil’ oat milk lattes as we unzip our puffers and turn our heads after hearing the barista say she’s Dominican, given that Caribbean winds carry far, and you’re always in need of reconnection, and your best friend tells you she’s caught up on this dude I won’t even describe because she’s worth so much more and deserves better and you fall into each other because there are few cushioned places for ever-healing femmes to gently collapse with our crowd-dispersing laughs, as we hold each other’s silly lil’ tote bags and simultaneously commiserate and rejoice over knowing we are one of the purest forms of riches we’ll ever have, complimenting how big our hearts have gotten and giving each other gold stars for all the tears we’ve collected, cradled between hands decorated by beautifully shaped acrylics that make us touchable only by those we let in, as we honor that we are still learning.
They make border out of moving body
and announce that it is dying
and that Mexico owes the U.S. water
but not from our wet backs.
They hung us up to dry.
Remember?
Rivers without water are not rivers.
They are ghosts.1
The only river worth crossing
remains within us, uncharted.
1 John Horning, The Denver Post, The Rio Grande is Dying
Edited by Emilie Menzel and Bretty Rawson.
The featured image was created for this piece by our Art Director, Meg Sykes.
