poem for the trees
FOR GUADALUPE (or whoever this may find)
it's enough to say
you're getting older every day
you ought to love somone.
I.
cover my dreams
in paper bags
& screen them through a tin can.
II.
cultivate a new soil!
plant a fig tree!
watch!
as the root climbs between your legs,
each thorn a testament of bloodshed faith
only for
the son
of a son
of a son
who profits
off of cow skin
to post:
we need to talk about accountability in our community.
as he burns our tree
into methane.
he could buy a dream
for the price of his left shoe.
III.
the gun to the pig
is the sand to our skin;
you’re caring about the wrong things
& time is slipping away.
when did
a day in the park
become life on a razor’s edge?
the blade is dull
& it’s sure to rust,
but fuck it, we’re gorgeous in the sunlight
and at this moment i feel such warmth
in the passenger seat of your car.
IV.
don't be stressed
don't be stressed
don't be stressed
V.
someone dies
& there’s a void in the margarita shop.
someone dies
& a pin-prick feels like heaven.
someone dies
& the pinkbluewhite of their sweater looks red.
someone dies
& you can never trust a journalist
to give a fuck about it.
VI.
so it seems
death contends
with what we now realize
to be a bullfight
rather than a collision.
at the surface
everything seems copacetic,
but there’s a wound
in the night sky.
trust me—
we’ll waltz when the time comes
-
love you forever
xoxo
VII.
& god bless the woman
who can bear the weight
of a thousand generations
on $11.50 an hour.
run away if you get the chance.
VIII.
somewhere between:
i’m afraid of bullets
and
i want all of my enemies to die.
as in:
i have so much love to give!
but
i’m in the wrong collection.
despite:
i’m going to kill you when i see you
really,
i just don’t want to fight anymore.
IX.
nevermind the truth,
they wrote a book about it
X.
& to your mother,
with the $2500 prada bag:
i hope you suffer.
& to your uncle,
with the twenty pound utility belt:
i hope you suffer tremendously.
& to you,
the boy with the chrome rings
& oil beneath your nose:
i hope you suffer the most.
XI.
somewhere i know
there’s life beyond upholstery,
but grandma i’m as close to the edge as possible
& the pavement looks like disneyworld
in the streetlight
of the bay.
XII.
cover my dreams
in paper bags
& salt the earth behind you.
Dominic Calderon
Dominic Calderon is a Mexican poet and visual artist based in Phoenix, Arizona. He would like to see every rich kid / ICE agent / journalist / veteran thrown into an incinerator. Love letters and death threats can be sent via twitter @ciroc_jon.