the power to heal a broken generation resides in me.
i sit and dying shapes of fiber change color and fall and shrivel
syrupy-slow, they slow into molasses, sickly sweet grape medicine.
nothing but worn brown leather and corners of wrinkled pages.
do not have the courage to move.
barriers of apathy and
dead air close in
leaving only a cracked glass
and a dusty warped book of pictures.
how do we change?
cries of ninety lives and silence.
a thousand porpoises
clubbed to death.
a small brown girl with acid
in her eyes and tongue cut out, if only to beg a few more cents. our
worn green paper and dirty metal circles form the
division between us and the
cure. time only strengthens the infallible wall.
cure. no pills, no syringe, no serum.
black and white inkdroplets across the blank blank
page wash down that wall of metal.
sweetly haunting melodies
pierce through and establish our human connection.
even now, thousands of years after its discovery, the music only digs an infinitesimal
through the stale layers of grimy copper and laced paper.
but as a broken generation we raise our voices to the rhythm that surrounds us.
the rhythm that lives, breathes within us.
it’s the rhythm of life that lets us bind our voices
By Jessica Bahk