The shot was fired
and the child, stripped of more than a veil,
turned from the false honor of stones.
Weeds bleeding in dead men's eyes
splattered her flesh muzzling a nameless
crowd amidst applause.
Together, on the back of a pick-up,
rushing through fields of split fig, they rested
after walking up to a water place.
I wrestle with striking teachers,
careful not to get hit by flying Yucca,
suspicious of terms: Latin lover, communist,
slave, tranny. And I don’t have a job,
or a single dream, but rivers of words
transgressing, drive me mad
as I join the picket line taking my bath
to the middle of the street.
© Sergio A. Ortiz, Publisher, Flutter Press, 2009