My guilt is filthy water; still now, beads
of silt cloud my sight
this land is sold. that parcel gone
is cold gas, fueling my anger
my guilt is that i can’t get it back
my crime is jailed homeboys
mark, marty, marcos,
locked up; silenced;
and danny sitting under morning shade
sipping a bud light.
my crime is leaving the barrio and all of them behind
my sin is “bury the dead.”
i will not cry. I am proud.
i sanction living like a warrior
i do it to wake our dead.
my sin is not shaking hard enough.