today.

June 13th, 33 years ago
She gave up her life to fight
     against poverty, injustice, oppression.
I don't know if she knew the cost
     nor the kind of ripples it would
     make.
June 3rd, 10 days ago
I stand up against it too,
in a sleeveless gray shirt and naked feet.

Stop.
A glass jar in the corner of the closet
     filled with sage, smoke, and secrets.
Two poems from mother and friend.
A congested throat trying to release
     the locked voice.
Stop.

I feel his face in mine.
I lay down and feel his body on mine.
Body remembers what the mind must
      lock away safely.
A sore jaw and tight IT-bands
I am safe, she says.
Does this mean what I think it means?
A long, intentional pause.
A gentle, clear, and honest answer.
     Yes.
     Yes, it does.
What does it change?
     Everything.

Put it on a paper in a glass jar with sage smoke in the corner of
     the closet contained.
Next to flowers and pictures and
     drawings and pain.
You look like her, Jessica.
Eyes rimmed red, feet on the ground
    Practice the roots.
You know, she died.
Along with 30 other young people
Bombed from above and bulldozed
     over by soldier trained and endorsed
     in the land I now live.
They can't even pronounce her name.
Abuelito found her head a month
     later because she was one of only
     two women and the only with short
     hair.
He carried her head and a limb from
     Managua to Esteli to be buried
     with family.

You may rape me, America.
You may yell in my face and threaten
     me.
You may even kill me like you killed
     my Tia Nhordia.
No punishment you might inflict on me is worse than the punishment I put on myself by conspiring in my own diminishment. 


I stand with much deeper roots.
With wind in my screams and
     fire in my gut.
Kuan Yin in my hand and
Guadalupe on my back.
Rosaries around my neck
Prayers from black angels binding
     and casting out all evil in
    the Holy name of Jesus.
Fingers digging in my back ribs.
Salt and Holy Water and a circle
     of candles.
Singing in tongues.
Drumming and swinging with big hair.
Borrowed sweat pants.
"I pray that Jessica is safe and keeps coming back so I have someone to play with."
Stacks of court orders and pictures.
Stolen white board lists changing
    each day demanding.
The first time I call this place
     Home.

I am bringing it all,
Surrounded in light blue light.