For the Central American Refugee Caravan
Montreal, Canada 2:00AM November 2018
As if Tijuana wasn’t alive with all these thousands of bruises.
All these sunrises and mariachis have taught us that our houses have shoes on.
No American dream just enough beans and rice to get by.
Our father will have paint or dirt stains on his jeans at our graduation ceremony.
Kisses are more real when the San Ysidro Border of Tijuana/San Diego… It’s not over until we work in all these countries.
Our spines subjugated by those that don’t understand our broken smiles, maybe the affluent La Jolla neighborhood is rich because of our heartbeat.
Maybe the thousands of Hondurans, Guatemalans, Salvadorans are just a reminder of how far we didn’t go. One more paycheck, in five years, abuelitos will drift away in some unknown town in Santa Ana, El Salvador.
We all know that Los Angeles will make room for us.
Our historical Amnesia will remind us of March 25, 2016 when we took to the streets in masses. Some say one million.
Give us back the city. Give us back our childhoods. Give us the smell of car engines for days and we know what to do with ourselves. No self-actualization, just more fucking work. Work that children wake up to hear from their Latino fathers at three a.m., drunk with tiredness.
We know what this means, you keep us here to clean, cook, build.
Latina mothers see what happens in the fields while working alone. The women janitors too. This is for Guatemala, for El Salvador, for Honduras…
In memory of Claudia Patricia Gomez Gonzalez, age twenty, whose life ended for crossing over in Texas. Rest in Peace.
This is for the Central American refugee caravan.
…a burning throat, a baby being told about his place in the world too soon,
a swollen pride, the forgotten family that still makes room for you in their house. A broken spirit, four months in some detention center, your tears hot down your shirt, tortillas, corn.
We are not asking you to share.
We will sneak in.
El pueblo… jamas sera vencido