By Michael Zendejas
Memoria
1.
Yesterday’s dirt
still on our sleeve,
we look up.
Light is cut
by blades
in a window.
2.
Did bayonets
slash through glass
crunched beneath
conquistadors’
boots?
3.
‘Uvalde’
is shattered Spanish,
& every Latino
on the news
is—
4.
Memories are
pāpālōmeh
gathered
in the air,
when winds
reflect
all the colors
of yesterday.
5.
Pour water
over jade.
Let cempasúchil
line candled streets.
Sandals,
gold,
precious stones
& chocolate—
whatever wasn’t
stolen, we give
Smoke in Juarez
smells like stories gone
yellow with age like dreams
of a land where your name sits
awkward on their tongues
one locks up the other
gets paid in english
hands reach
through inky plumes
finding locked glass
where help is
supposed to be in Guatemala
a Mayan mother cries
how can you read
at a time like this
the white house
should have burned
in music
the dark now
less dark
Michael Zendejas is the Senior Hybrid Acquisitions Editor for Abode Press. He received a Fiction MFA at UMass Amherst and runs the film blog, The Chicano Film Shelf. An inaugural recipient of the Rose Fellowship, a Juniper Fellow, a 2022 winner of the James W. Foley Memorial Prize and a member of the inaugural cohort of the Emerging Writers Fellowship, he consults and teaches classes on Fiction, Poetry and Screenwriting via GrubStreet. His work is featured or forthcoming in: Stanchion, North American Review, Unstamatic, Five2One Magazine and elsewhere.