Carlton Hill, November
Still, a kind of rebellion: night as rain
glassed frozen grasses. Limp hills
of new-forested stone
walls all snow lichen-dusted,
train soughing winded valley. Over dim tents
you and I intone in cloudbreak—
we did not watch for constellations,
but lifted coals ember light
to thaw our boots
Dream in Which Iguala is the Genesee
This is something that should never have happened,
and must never be repeated.
–Jesús Murillo, Mexico Attorney General
They water flowers for the dead while I lay down
tonight—snowmelt river water
stinking in my clothes—my door
ablaze in protest. Students
scream we are not armed—their fists
against riot shields, eyes
water tear gas river
south campus dark green gentle
bends reflect cornfields beneath the bridge—
a desert south stars ruddy
in cloud smoke thick ash
on riverbank. Diesel
on water pearly, languid—
under tide of trash and skin. Their brown
skin, blistered skin teeth that turn
to dust in eddy. Hands in water, hands
pressed through rifle bore—my hands
are white, soft—
dripping red I have turned away
from garbage pyres: 43 students shot
and burned, bones
thrown to water, skin—ash
gathered on this dirt as snow.
Evan Goldstein is a sophomore English (creative writing) major at SUNY Geneseo. His favorite road is Nations Road, and his favorite album is still Darkness on the Edge of Town. Evan is working on his poetry and photography, and figuring out what comes next. He would be best friends with Sam Hamilton from East of Eden, because he was always kind, even during hard times.
<< 1 poem by Michele Lynn Pawlak 1 poem by Dante Di Stefano >>