Angel Lagunas

Why is Today a Normal Day [for Those of Us that Keep on Losing]

There’s not really a    song

that quite captures the

uneasiness      that makes my hand 

quiver        as I write this,       like when I’m home 

sleeping 

with a pocket knife under my flat pillow,          dreaming 

of raids inside my room,

always rising before I know 

if we win the bullet battle.

I am dehydrated from all the 

rivers I’ve cried, from all the rivers 

we’ve almost drowned in, 

meaning different things to my parents than it does to me. 

They’ve crossed borders 

with brassy voices behind them, 

calloused by the steps in the sun of the Sonoran, 

pruney fingers from the Grande. And I?

I used to carry all my burdens on rest notes.

Slaves used to sing

to cope with their captivity, wading in the water. 

We’re different shades with a similar somber. 

In the back of house, the dishwasher plays 

Otis Redding’s (Sittin' On) the Dock of the Bay, 

washing the half-eaten plates

to ease the agony of wanting to leave our current cages. 

41 people died today, 

41 who didn’t deserve to die, 

  who were         running,       running from the bullet battles, 

from the brassy voices

            running       from the raids,               running from the blades.

We must turn their ashes into phoenixes 

because if we forget to carry 

our beloved like the melodies in the back of our minds, 

Who will remember the way those songs made us feel?