etsapwera

For the past nine or so years, he weaves a blanket. Night after night, he incorporates thread after thread of caresses and warm words. For the blanket's purpose is to dispel all forms of darkness, real and imagined, to combat the monsters under the bed and inside one's head, to imitate a canopy of stars. Night after night, he hands me the unfinished blanket. It is soft and warm. And though I still sleep with the light on, the blanket is enough to remind me that the ticking of the clock is sometimes similar to the beating of two hearts.#

Remembering J, E, and J learning to swim There is a certain apprehension upon learning that one must sink before being able to float. And swim. It calls to mind previous drownings, in and out of the water. Of being pulled under of thrashings of water coming in and threatening to overpower one's self. But one plunges in and acclimates to the cold water, remembering that even the greatest among us must face the unknown.#

Stars rarely speak. We see the same set; after all, we are nearer to each other than the distance between the tightest binary stars. In the olden times, stars showed us our path; stars reflected our true self. In the vast unknown, is it a crime to wish upon a star? Stars rarely speak, but sometimes, I talk to them, even if we are not twins and we are not stars. Some nights, I call to each visible star to light your way home. I say thanks for their response, even if they don’t speak. Some nights, I pray to each to extinguish this darkness. The stars do not speak. The night sky is silent. We will never be stars; we will never be twins. But in the vast unknown, in this great darkness, we see the same set of stars. And that is more than enough.

Revolution I. Intake The worker breathes deeply, breathing in the fumes of the factory. A new day starts. New indignities. But he must plod on. II. Compression Loud, harsh voice in the middle of the floor. The noise of the machines carrying on, despite cutting off a limb. A rough hand groping the smooth expanse of skin covered by cloth. Wages not enough to buy a bag of groceries. Pressure builds up. III. Power The workers converge in the corners. They talk in hushed voices, before each rising decibel gains momentum. They talk of taking collective action. Spark plug igniting. IV. Exhaust Another day in the factory ends. The worker breathes in and out. He plods on, knowing he is not alone. He gains strength for the next cycle.#

Fists Unfurling the banner, the protesters begin the march. The placards ascend, so do fists. It is as if they are fighting against the heat. But fists have their own logic. They rise when others fall--- bodies, dignity, rights. And how they rise. They rise as if waves of water, towering before crashing before rising again. They rise like seedlings, shooting up, overcoming the darkness and safety of the earth. Or mountains, slow, but the triumph over gravity, sure. The fists rise and fall, rise and fall: the beating of the collective heart. The heart that never tires. The heart that is faithful. The heart that beats for a Red sunrise.#