May 25
poem 0 comments challenge: General

Nos Faltan 43


Blood summers in the deep parts of mexico
are the reason I only visit in the spring.
They call them blood summers
because of how the air gets thick
and how the children get stolen.

I can either write or they can bleed
with the fragile heartbeats they have left.
Pain has always taken us for weak
and I am weak
so I write.

Sometimes they take them from school,
or from home, or from their father's arms.
And everyone is alone because
they don't get amber alerts.
Just death ones.

I can either write or they can cry
with leaking eyes we have yet to see with.
Memories gathered in the corners
dripping down our cheeks until we feel lonely
and I am lonely
so I write.

Have you seen the marches?
The charred paper with the faces etched in?
The billboards clustered on the highway?
The way they don't let go of their children?

Where is Karime?

Where is Fernando?

Where is Silvia?

Where is Marta?

At dawn I can either write or they can burn,
for the sun lights us on fire,
all that they never were.
and the ash shows that we are guilty,
and I am guilty
so I write.

Have you seen them?