One Million Minus One

Me cortaron la lengua, pero tengo mis pies

Millions marching mimeograph
our caras onto international view.
no caption does justice to the sight.
if they take your tongue, well
you still have your feet.

The headline of the mass outpouring
of raised voices and fists invoke Judy Baca.
Staggered portraits along the river, palms
open, holding light. al fin, murals and gente
hiding debajo del horizonte emerge
in a blazing, deliberate chant.

Rally cries can’t muffle a mother’s llanto.
Her son walked to the front, raised
his chin. an administrator pulled him
out of line. leaned too heavy
on tentative boy backbone.
the traverse toward manhood stunted.

Mother’s arms flail around the empty space
where awkward middle school limbs played
with equilibrium, tested reach, resistance.
a rubber band that snapped.

Por qué es que han marcado una línea en la tierra
por qué es que han creado la escuela como cárcel
estudiantes criminales, los maestros policías
Me cortaron la lengua, pero tengo mis pies.

Belated obituary won’t pull chalk
out of the hands of boys drawing their outlines,
their surrender, onto the sidewalk.

The absence of news coverage
about a principal who slipped
the bolt out from a boy’s spine,
the clatter of bone as he retreated
into the comfort of district policies,
won’t erase the occurrence,
the date, the time.

Este pedacito de hombre, why
did he take a principal’s threat
like a gun to his head?
didn’t anyone tell him, regardless
of how teachers menace,
accusations stick, skin reflects,

you are precious.
You are precious.
You are precious.