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A satellite in New York City
I call out, can anyone hear me?
Will someone listen to the anger seeping
In my skin, the burning, the bleeding
Bubbles fester, my veins are seething
Flames flash floods fire, someone cradle me softly
Slashes carved into my cheeks
Like the soil beneath my feet
Bottomed and Brown, to be excavated
Uprooted, stripped, raped and naked
One step removed, it’s easy to say
That commas delay and memories fade
But in roast and jest, I’m sensitive to spice
My scars still remind me how commas can splice
Lonely driftwood, the borders have crossed me
In untethered limbo, a shadowy destiny
Traps and terror maps built into my psyche
Haunted and drifting in unfaithful irony
Brown and queer, as I am, do you see?
Among orbiting satellites, a glorious symphony
Golden legacies, colonial chemistries
Still radio silence, can anyone hear me?
The last two weeks of February have felt like swimming in uncharted waters. From seeing the community outcry pour into Antioch City Council calls and social media since the news of Angelo Quinto’s death surfaced on February 18, 2021, I feel overwhelmed and heartbroken. Yet, I am perplexed by my own grief for a Filipino man I never knew.Continue reading →