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Combustible!
by Elani Spencer

Lincoln’s stone-white face peers out over the shadowy
trees leaning against the blue pool reflecting the siege
on Los Estados Unidos, spreading quickly–destruction
everywhere, cracked white-picket signs, marching pioneers
screaming Go back to Mexico!–lungs burning from LA fires,
we watch the orange haze travel across borders–somewhere alien– foreign

1861. Clinking chains echoing in stone castles beneath the rush of foreign
waters lapping against the Elmina port. Moaning, screaming, pleading in the shadow
of slave ships looming over the Door of no return. Consumed by my sisters hands, fire
flickering in her pupils, I didn’t understand the meaning of Don’t split the pole, a siege
on the Black family, women one way, men the other, shuffled away by pioneers
So I guess we’ll just ignore since it was a long time ago, our past of destruction

Now, a criminal is sitting upon a copper high-horse, calling for the destruction
of families when he harbors an immigrant under his roof– foreign
lands pocketed with moon craters steaming with nitrogen gas, pioneers–
I mean politicians…signing bombs: May this be your last rising sun! Within shadow
-s is the only home we know, so we burrow down into the earth and wait for the siege
to end, clutching our rights to our chest, the singed constitution curling under the fire

We are not going back! A nice sentiment. But I can feel history’s shadow
lingering on the shoulder of Plantation Road, thumb raised for the siege
on humanity, like all the wars that came before us, before the destruction
of small businesses, before Agave Azul, ICE– black-clad so-called pioneers,
waiting patiently to catch and release like the white hoods, setting fire
to forbidden fruit, teeth-tearing soft, sweet flesh… thankfully, to us, still foreign

A woman’s body is political. A vessel men in suits can sign ownership to, pioneers
putting up billboards: Save the babies! But sit back while American school’s fire
alarms blare over gunfire ricocheting off metal lockers, children’s shadows
stretching long beneath “bullet-proof” desks, praying the rain and the destruction
of childhood innocence will stop. Parents waiting at home, a silence so foreign
in a world of technology. One text. One message. One ding in the aftermath of the seige
Lincoln, a man of freedom, watches the ash as it falls over foreign
bodies and settles at the bottom of the pool delved in shadows
where they hook them with a bloody fingernail like fiery
orange koi fish, and split them open for stew, but pioneers
have always just been colonizers, raging upon the natural world, a siege
on the art of peace, a medium, so long ago, lost to destruction

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