(This is an image from a Venezuelan march, violently repressed by the government. Dozens of people have been killed for daring to protest, 28 alone in the past three weeks. Hundreds have been detained, there are political prisoners and some detainees have been tortured, according to Human Rights organizations, both from Venezuela and abroad.)
Cinnamon dreams fly from porridge bowls,
In the cool, early morning light.
To the music of a xylophone, the radio
Announcer chants the bargains of the day.
Humming, she goes about, in the warm
Embrace of the kitchen I don’t want to leave.
But the bus is coming, driving slowly
Over shaded lanes, the sun spinning
Delicate laces through the canopy
Of the acacia trees, birds singing sins
(My father used to say), choiring with
Crickets and tea pots, while iron pans
Fry merry dawns out of humble eggs.
The bus honks, and she calls my name,
Her eyes bright with dreams
That will not come to pass.
But she believes, and I believe with her,
Because last night I saw a man
Walking on the moon, weaved in
A tapestry of grey blinking stars
That sounded, at times, like the sea in a shell
-But the bus is waiting and she kisses me, hurriedly,
Her breath a waft of mint and honey
And toasted corn bread.
I wave good-bye and run off to my last day
Of innocence, three hours before the war
And the absence she is to leave.
The bus turns at the corner of King’s road.
The paper man sits, bored,
On a table of news tainted red.