My Streets (Poem)

I wish the Andes hadn’t been silenced–

I wish the city cradling me during birth had yelled a little louder. 

I wish I had seen them take torches to the shoulder-high monte.

I saw the Andes burn,

how it heaved its ashes down crowded, ugly streets.

And wondered why those black flakes burned,

why they smeared my clothing,

And my father?

I saw him swimming,

head bowed to his Father,

flakes of white ash on his brow –

valley trees murmuring his name. 

I have always connected poetry to fire

whether my pen admitted it or not.  

I connected serenity to my city,

whether the children robbing me knew it or not –

I always heard the

humming

strumming

running

whether the crowd cared or not. 

In the winter, when the air burned my tongue,

and sun licked my eyes–

I turned to my mother,

and tumbled into her as waves upon sand.

and it was then I heard the mountains

and I craved…cradled,

words. Incessant fire.