They came to me that day. I cut my thumb because I needed an onion. My blood dripping like a Tarantino wet dream. I wrapped my thumb in gauze to let the blood cease its fury. The altar that I built was for the ancestors who smoked rollies and drank Guinness. My dad was there with his Budweiser.
My grandmother, with her stern eyes, didn’t like the arrangement. But Cliotilde, you’re lucky you’re there, with the husband who left you for your sister.
The auntie who took the ring and the auntie who promised to care for me. They were all there.
I placed the gauze on the altar and pledged my alliance.
To the ones who roamed in Dublin. To the ones who made love in Mexico, the mishmash of ghosts and generational trauma, it ends and it starts here.
Blessed are the bleeding. Blessed are the indigenous. Blessed are the Iberian. Blessed are the Celtic. Your wounds, your songs, and your history are stronger than the intention.
Maybe the masculine and the feminine here are not the promised land. But we promise the struggle. We promise the fight. We promise our hearts with all our might. That is all we can do. And we will do it well. All of our enemies suffer the hell.
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