by Raquel Salas Rivera
titá lines up the children and gives each an eraser. she says,
open your books and erase the names
of your grandchildren’s assassins.
they stare at each other.
one dares ask, who are the assassins?
titá with a long finger and a wide hand
screams towards the roof, crucified by the air’s motor.
they have the same faces and last names
as your grandparents’ assassins, they look like your
they govern, they direct traffic, they lean against their
the children start desperately crying.
their faces melt from the air conditioner’s cold
where a bird plants a nest.
they don’t know how to draw nothings in books.
they don’t know how to imagine themselves
by erasing pasts.
a great beach ball deflates in their hands.
a mangy dog licks their ears.
the outlets throw sparks, collective cough,
plagues of soaked shoes.
no one knows how to recognize assassins.
you are all going to die!
titá’s voice swims towards their helpless mouths.
400 schools closed.
no one knows about erasers or pencils.
history books expose their live crónicas.
a chalkboard shard is a broken mirror.
the children have no idea who assassinates their futures.
they erase their own faces, confused.
Last updated November 07, 2022