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Most Things Die In the Winter Here: 3 Poems

July 25, 2018 Crystal Stella Becerril
us-mexico_border_deaths_monument_a0848acfac.jpg
Red Wedge #5, "Bad Dreams," is now available for purchase. Order it here.

in dreams

(in dreams)
my teeth fall out.                           

I am a mouth full
of crowns and empty
houses; my gums, bloody
shores where ancestral trauma still washes up
                                                                  today.

your wings melt.

you triangulate the distance to
my thighs        e x p a n s i v e
cemeteries nestling the field of bright
                                                        cempazuchitl
that will break your fall.

our flag is red.

mybodyyourbody     our
bodies are a  R I O T.
salt of the earth, we are
                                              the storm.

you cannot live without a fire

you crossed the border twice.
over the moon and under it,
sad embers sighed and

people warned of stormy weather.

but god is in the rain.
gray and soft like the melancholy
you tuck behind your tender ear
                                                   of maize, Xilonen;
the huitlacoche of Sunday markets.

the milky cup of tea which
you let get cold again.

most things die in the winter here, and
this gold does not on these shores grow, but
some flowers will bloom in December—
despite the cold
shoulders;
                                             despite the ghosts.
and,
                              (if you’re being completely honest)

you would have crossed it thrice, because
                                   you cannot live without a fire.

the burden of responsibility is a yellow dress

(for Fiona)

weep for an hour. apologize

to your girlhood.

salty tears burn
scraped knees on hot summer stoop.

the burden of responsibility is
a yellow dress weaving in and
out of dark streets, not the
entitled hands that
collect                         d  i  s  a  s  s  o  c  i  a  t  i  n  g  
eyes in the neon glow.

the burden of responsibility is
a young girl's shadow
recalling the crickets of childhood
nights laid up
in back seats, street lights flying by overhead.

laidbackstreetsiren.
laidbackseatsilence.

kiss the broken limbs
of your girlhood as night rider
plumes and soca vibrations fill the air
acquitting cat-calls and gaslighting you, but

don't forget to
                                                  b  r  e  a  t  h  e, 
Babygirl,
or you'll collapse like a star.

These poems appear in Red Wedge #5: “Bad Dreams.” Copies can be ordered now in the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, and across Europe.

Red Wedge depends on your support! If you want to see more of this kind of work, consider becoming a supporter of the publication through our Patreon. 


Crystal Stella Becerril is a Brooklyn based poet, cultural critic, and in dependent journalist writing about Xicana feminism, class struggle, and the politics of aesthetics in pop culture. She’s been part of the Red Wedge editorial collective since 2013 and enjoys film, photography, graphic design and (like a good Xicana) Britpop is still her favorite genre.

In Poetry, July 2018 Tags immigration, migration, sexuality, race, culture, counterculture, feminism, empire
← Riots and Reality: Sorry to Bother You and Radical IrrealismBad Dreams →

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