All these years we are slaves to creatures whose power comes from our surrender.
We call it power when the promise is good enough to go hungry for.
No one will help build my house with all those mouths of their own to feed.
Our wives cannot count our children.
We go to the coast to pick beans one by one and get paid for a big sack at the end of the day.
While we work out here, the wives run the village with remittances.
We go in the night in the back of a truck with grain and dumb animals so we can pay the debt we owe for the joy the night before.
It is one night the whole year long we save ourselves for: that fatted calf, the drink of the dying, the dance and chase that ends up trampling the lot of us.
I drank and drank.
Then the village smoked me out, from where Id been lying in the trees.
When I came out coughing and two shades blacker than before, they saw—my pants down, the girl crawling out from under me.
Yes they burned the trees and they tell me if you climb the next volcano over you can see the scars on its sister, naked where there wd have been the flesh of leaves, where yr eye got caught in the empty spots, looking for what shdv been.
When yr the little guy, it always feels good to have something under you.
When they found me and found out it was my daughter, they were too ashamed to punish me any other way but my own medicine—taking away what brought me up then down.
Shame is bullying the reflection in the water till you see that crying made the puddle.
I yell at the people walking on the road in a language only my village understands.
A just punishment returns yr loss to you, with the threat of losing it again.
Our justice system goes like: rise up as a village and bathe bastards in kerosene, and sting them up on wire an light em up so everyone knows what its like, the city light.
They chop out criminal tongues or criminal hands or criminal eyes or ears or criminal balls and we live this way afterward permanently paying—seeing, hearing, speaking no evil.
All other punishments just take it away.
There was me, the bitch tumbling down the mountains bald backside with my eggs in one hand, dead dick in the other, till the end of it where the wall meets the fray of the grass and I ratherve died against it but now I preach there with the tongue they let me keep, my war boots and the stick I mistake for a gun at my side.
They cut it off me; when the sacks cutoff like clouds of wasps from a tree in season suddenly Im jumping on and off the curb and flinging my stick like the telephone pole was the bramble Im cutting my way though to get more hidden and Im yelling at the trees for not letting me in. And Im yelling at the road because it dont lead to where Im going, and Im looking at you but you dont know what yr looking at so theres no shame in getting caught staring at the crazy.
All these years I am a slave.