a remix for remembrance

For my students This is for the boys whose bedrooms are in the basement, who press creases into jeans, who carve their names in pavement, the girls whose names are ancient, ancestry is sacred, the Aztec and the Mayan gods abuela used to pray with This is for the dangerous words hiding in the pages of composition notes, holy books, and Sanskrit This is for the patients who wait for medication, for the mothers microwaving beans and rice at day’s end This is for the marching bands and girls at quinceañeras, the skaters and the writers whose moms are eloteras, laughing “Cops don’t scare us, we sag so elders fear us We will rewrite our textbooks in our own language if you dare us” This is for the Sarahs, the Angelicas, and Shawns, the Beatrices, Paolas, Danielas, and the dawns we scribble sunlight in the margins of horizons with our songs, for all the voices tangled with the silence on our tongues Rivals in the parks, fireworks at dark, tired shirts that sweat your scent on hangers in the closet For the boys who fix the faucet while their sister fixes coffee ’cause mommy had to leave for work at 6 AM and laundry isn’t folded yet: you don’t have to hold your breath You don’t have to behave: stage your own rebellion, paint canvases with rage and religion and prayers for pilgrims sleeping in the train cars at the border and their children Filibust the Senate and bust markers on the Pink Line, stain the prosecution’s case and force the judge to resign, force the crowd the rewind the lyrics you invented Speak away the limits to heights of your existence Be a witness, be a record, be a testament, a triumph Set your poems flying in the glitter of the planets Feed open mouths with truth, the truth is we are famished The Universe is starving for the symphonies you play Clarinets and thunder and the syllables you say are the instruments: you are infinite. Stretch your hands to heaven Let your throat throttle the rhythms of all your fallen brethren Your legacy is present, your history is now You are the tenth degree of sound You are the nephews of the sky You are the bass line and the hi-hat and the snare drum and the cry of red Septembers. You’re the architects of winter You are the builders of the roads that you’re told you don’t remember          You are the builders of the roads that you’re told you don’t remember       You are the builders of the roads that you’re told you don’t remember Cast poems in the river and tell them you remember Skate City Hall to splinters and tell them you remember Send diamonds to your islands and tell them you remember Find your God inside your mirror and tell Her you remember