Witnessing
last night I dreamt I was interrogated by I.C.E.
they knew about how I ghosted Esteban after one date, about the small, behind the scenes disputes
in our non-profit writers’ group of women who refuse to submit.
I only wanted to imagine a world of liberation and joy,
not how to integrate the mundane with the horrific.
on the 4th of July with the day laborers in the Home Depot parking lot
we ate mango and piña cream paletas from Sal’s cart.
on the 5th Sal and thirty others are abducted by masked government gunmen
while I read poolside in the shade of an umbrella and Josue, the word-of-mouth advertiser
for the 4th of July celebration, sheltered in a job center with the other men as injustice
preyed: a battering ram against a locked door. This news interrupted my scrolling
through friends’ pictures of vacations in Paris, Rome, London, Alaska. I wake
from the interrogation dream, make coffee, go to work. I move into a new office with a window
as windows shatter in Gaza, Israel, Iran, and the cars of brown men in Los Angeles.
my coworker’s family in Palestine
my yoga friend’s niece in Israel
my church friend’s family in Iran
I weep for you
my neighbor’s gardener who is afraid to come to work
I weep for you
my fellow librarians in Florida
my LGBTQ+ cousins in Hungary
I weep with you
and I march for you in the crosswalks of Studio City,
on the summer-hot asphalt of Van Nuys boulevard,
paletas melting on our fingers with sugar that sticks like the gravity
of war’s trauma on children, communities upended, lives lost
can never be filled: I know as I still search for my father in a village erased,
in memories that never existed.
everyday this year has been filled with mourning,
a reminder to savor our aliveness. my pastor says love must stop
whispering, so I shout my deepest fear. my family, dear friend, dear reader:
will you report me for writing this?
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(Featured image by Carwil Bjork-James – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0)