Osprey and raccoon leave fish carcasses
up in the skinny Australian pines. A tourist
drags her skirt in the gentle surf of the bay.
One large condo in the distance
is completely on fire.
In order to feel safe, we sleep in the trees,
swatting at mosquitoes. An Abuela
comes down the bridge half way, calling
for her sons. The hem of her nativity
dress has dragged through blood.
Summer clouds are like cakes.
They do not promise to stop torture
or to bring humanity back. If you see
an osprey with a fish it is a sign of prosperity.
In last year’s spring parade, between the pirate
ship tossing green and silver beads and the police
motorcade, one man walked alone
as a skeleton to protest the war.
He walked like his legs didn’t work,
pretending to lose his balance.
Children threw rocks at him until their parents
smacked them. At the end, the pastor’s son, playing
Resurrected Jesus walked through the trash
and dirtied his gown.
The Abuela raised up to beg heaven
and a wind dropped a dead fish into her hands.
She screamed and the tourist, missing one eye
and half a cheek turned her head
towards the sound of birds.
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