(for elaine rosa salo)
through amish country we talk about whiteness, how it parks itself in the corner unbothered; its big farms in the wettest of lands unspoken of in the midst of pretentious speeches about freedom for people like us. our people. us. us in america.
how whiteness survives as pure, traditional and timeless, in this land
how when our people– when we— are killed by a system that has unhumaned us, when that time comes, as it did yesterday, is today and will tomorrow/ as we will to survive, at that time, past that time, whiteness will stay.
it will perch itself onto trees with bird species not native to this land
it will park itself into carriages, tied onto horses adorned in entitlement,
it will be wrapped into headscarfs of virgin girls who can’t wait to get to new york’s basement clubs. girls whose ownership must be transferred between men– from father to husband through brother– but white. at least.
when we are killed, elaine, this whiteness will remain: immortal, unkillable, hidden from the public script of freedoms in this land of the free.
through amish country, we imagine ourselves trespassers,
our blackness nagging at our necks like a chicken licken craving
we are moeg. moeg. moeg.
between penn state and newark our eyes have seen a scene set for war,
people’s sons packed — like sardines– in war trucks across highways set for an american invasion in lands whose gps coordinates we won’t calibrate yet,
these, too, traumatized and wounded shall be called patriotic veterans– medals of conquest are as american as bagels and ketchup– like their grandfathers before them.
(we hear screams from vietnam’s children reaching ears of a mother who has gone mute since her last son was killed in iraq)
we are laughing because jess won’t stop being jumpy– speaking of how she is part girl, part boy– in a pink flowery skirt that she now hates but wears, anyway.
but bagel just ate rachael’s blue and mda won’t forgive us for blue has suffered before through grandma’s wrath while rachael sang country music across america’s country with strangers.
we have been laughing. laughing at miles’ antics through mouth’s filled with colin’s pasta, but i gotta go now.
“shitty but manageable”, you say.
i must regain faith in a naturally healing body that will know how and when to use immune system as it was intended…and to learn to trust that the goddess has it under control.
six days after 13 august, i sit with/in your words: to live by a more natural rhythm
six days after your heart starts to beat in the rhythm of a parallel afterworld, i am yet to mourn you.
this is not my mourning to do, elaine; i am yet to learn the stages to grief.
no one has taught my heart the steps to mourning immortal presences.
caster won. BUT, we have lost. we have lost so much.