Raised Fist* – Process

You come from the place where the garbage is picked up. Two lightning bolts hit the same place. Because you saw the first one, you expect the second. Here you continue. Where the land opens up and people gather. You are late again: you are alive because you are not on time, because you did not attend the appointment that killed you at 1:14 pm, thirty-two years after another appointment you also did not arrive on time. You are a victim of neglect. The buildings shake and you cannot see life passing before your eyes, as it happens in the movies. A part of you is injured that you did not know existed: the skin of memory, which brings not scenes from your life but from animals that hear the creaking of matter. The water also remembers what it was like when it owned this place. It trembles in the river. In the house we built by the river, it trembles. You pick up the book of other times, the book that you were in front of those pages long ago. After the National Day, the rains come, more like carnival than greatness. Is there still room for heroes in September? Are you afraid? You have the courage to be afraid. You don’t know what to do, but you will do something.You did not discover the city, nor did you defend it from invaders. If anything, you are a beggar of history. The one who collects garbage after a tragedy. The one who sorts bricks, collects stones to find a comb, two mismatched shoes, a wallet with photos. The one who organizes the loose parts, the fragments, still exists, just exists. What fits in your hands. The one who has no gloves. The one who distributes water. The one who gives medicine to others because he has cured a fear. The one who sees the moon and dreams of strange things, but does not know how to interpret them. The one who heard his cat meow half an hour ago and did not understand what it meant until the first shake, when water came out of the toilet. The one who prayed in a strange language because he had forgotten how to pray. The one who remembered who was where. The one who went to school for the sake of the children. The one who cared for those who had children in school. The one whose battery ran out. The one who went to the street to hand over a mobile phone. The one who broke into an abandoned business and repented at the recycling center. The one who knew there was something left. The one who stayed awake so that others could sleep. The one who came from here. The one who just arrived has come from here. The one who says “the city” means you, me, Pedro, Marta, Francisco and Guadalupe. It’s been two days without electricity and water. The one who is still breathing. The one who raised his fist and asked for silence. The ones who listened to him. The ones who raised their fists. The ones who raised their fists to hear if anyone is still alive. The ones who raised their fists to hear if anyone is still alive and heard a whisper. The ones who don’t stop listening.
*This poem was originally published in the Friday, September 22, 2017 edition of Reforma newspaper.