Rolando André López

WE ARE SO VIOLENT

That if you squeeze a newspaper

As you would a sponge, 

Lo que sale es sangre.

What pours out is blood. 

What my teacher Maricuca said. 

Maricuca was an old lady.

I was 8 or 9. It was 1998 or 1999. 

Maricuca died in 2020. She changed my life

when I was 8, or 9, or both. She was

My fourth grade teacher. And  

When I was 8 or 9 Home was a House

But School was not a House. 

In fourth Grade School is a Terrible 

Feeling both ordinary and stupid.

I was not like the smart kids

Who played video games all weekend

And got A’s anyway. I was dumb

About the math problems and

Hated writing in cursive. 

And I was convinced the play

Ground kids were right when

They called me a maricón and

Laughed about my hair. K

is a scared little child in my class.

She’s in fourth grade and I am

Her teacher. When I give her

The Integrity award, the

Jealous students hiss—

Why not me? Why her?

All she does is walk around tiny

And we don’t even bully her. 

Maricuca took care of me.

I was her baby. She taught

Me hard work and the earned A.

She’s just a baby. K,

Her second name is Quiche. 

A and M have taken

Her on as a little sister. They

Are protective over her. 

As in the Mayan people living

in the midwestern highlands

of Guatemala. That is where

K comes from. She is so 

Little when she smiles 

At me in the schoolyard.

Poems are sacred things that

Happen to you in a play

Ground flash, poets are small

Like people are in the child

Hood of the Universe

In her previous school they

Bullied her for her size.

Here they bully R

Because she’s from Palestine

And K

So little when she smiles 

At me during el receso

I don’t tell her your face is 

A library. Or your eyes are

A temple. I just see an old lady.

She’s my teacher, Time 

Out of Mind I tell A

And M, Look after her. 

She’s vulnerable.