(A poem included in my new unpublished collection, MY BOOK OF THE DEAD, dedicated to John Trudell–like most poets, also a prophet of sorts.)
but it wasn’t. We go on.
Disaster has happened to someone else.
We venture out and buy more. We take more. We discard. We pillage the earth.
The storms take sinister forms, go by isms, neo, and post-hyphenations. Be afraid, leaders of the faceless enemy, warn. Beware.
when you travel we cannot protect you.
We will be vigilant of your whereabouts.
Our watchful Eye will know your life.
Long lines to survive much less thrive lie
before you. You’ll feel shame like in naked dreams
but worse because we, in fact
are watching you. We will make sure you don’t question.
And when the storm is upon you,
when it has destroyed your homes,
and your children are not fine
and your dreams of golden roses and bright days are nowhere
but in the pages of a storybook,
we will be content in our heavens eating peeled
grapes, sipping fine wines from our vineyards of abundance,
sitting on our thrones,
new gods. We’ll smile down upon you
our creation of ruin,
pick our teeth with your bones.
(Ana Castillo: NM, 2015). First appeared in FIFTH WEDNESDAY JOURNAL, 2018.