When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud
And goes down burning into the gulf below,
No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud
At what has happened. Birds, at least, must know
It is the change to darkness in the sky.
Murmuring something quiet in its breast,
One bird begins to close a faded eye;
Or overtaken too far from its nest,
Hurrying low above the grove, some waif
Swoops just in time to his remembered tree.
At most he thinks or twitters softly, “Safe!
Now let the night be dark for all of me.
Let the night be too dark for me to see
Into the future. Let what will be be.”

^{translated from the Spanish by Wendy Call and Shook}

^{Oh god if you exist
I’ve never doubted your existence
                          —Nancy Morejón}

No one knows their names
or their pleas that would open every border
in heaven and hell
To the passerby they’re just Black men
newly arrived in Barcelona
no job
no Spanish on their tongues
Maroons who walk the street
hawking trinkets
their hunger and angst put on display
before the gaze of nosy tourists
They have a God
I have a God
and I rue their bad luck
having to run every time the Mossos
    d’Esquadra
chase them to jail
lumping them in with thieves and
    murderers
Sometimes I go down La Gran Avenida
or down the Barceloneta or down Las
    Ramblas
and I see all those Black men
spreading their white blankets on the ground 
as if they’ll soon return to sea
flying the sail of the promised land
the land that became a mirage
So all they have left is the drifting
dinghy of their hearts
the castaway’s jagged rocks
where each is a distressed bird
But they have a God
that they hold close
with the faith of a child
and the hope of a suicide
That’s why even in the rain
they all sing their bad luck
and none of them care about this city
that can’t pronounce their names
Because they have a God that smells of
   acacia
that tastes of ether and loneliness
And they each have a white blanket
that easily opens and closes
hawking trinkets
to sustain the hungry
a sheet that can be folded and tied up
so they can run far
far away from the Mossos d’Esquadra
from xenophobia
from the blindness of God

Todos somos cimarrones

^{Oh dios si existes
No he dudado de tu existencia
                          —Nancy Morejón}

Nadie conoce sus nombres
ni sus ruegos que abrirían todas las
   aduanas
del cielo y del infierno
Para los viandantes sólo son negros
recién llegados a Barcelona
sin empleo
sin español en la lengua
cimarrones que van por la calle
con su venta improvisada de baratijas
gente que extiende su hambre y su
   asombro
ante la mirada de turistas y fisgones
Ellos tienen un Dios
yo tengo un Dios
y me lamento por su mala suerte
de correr cada vez que los mossos
   d’esquadra
vienen tras de ellos a encarcelarlos
a juntarlos con ladrones y homicidas
A veces voy por la Gran Avenida
o por la Barceloneta o por las Ramblas
y veo a todos aquellos hombres negros
que extienden su manta blanca sobre el piso
como si de pronto volvieran al mar
y ondearan las velas de la tierra prometida
la tierra que un día se les volvió espejismo
Entonces sólo les queda la barca
de sus corazones a la deriva
la piedra del naufragio
donde cada uno es un pájaro que gime
Pero ellos tienen un Dios
que guardan bajo su sombra
con la fe de un niño
y la esperanza de un suicida
Por eso aún bajo la lluvia
todos cantan su mala suerte
y a ninguno le importa esta ciudad
que no sabe pronunciar sus nombres
Porque ellos tienen un Dios que huele a
    acacias
que sabe a éter y soledad
Y también tienen una manta blanca
que se abre y cierra fácilmente
una venta improvisada de baratijas
para sostener el hambre
una manta que se dobla y amarra
para poder correr lejos
muy lejos de los mossos d’esquadra
de la xenofobia
y de la ceguera de Dios

Mumure’ Nhtä’ Yäjktampä

^{Dä’ ngomi uka yijtubäre
dejurä’ mij’ jamdzäjkpatzi
                          —Nancy Morejón}

Ni’is ji’ myusaya’e nyiäyiram
teserike kyonuksku’tyam aku’ajkyajpabä’jinh te’ anhtunh’tam
tzajpis’nyi’e teserike yatzipä’räjk’kisnyi’e
Wijtyi’ajpapä’koroya yäjktampä’ pänh’tamte’
jomemi’tyajupäma Barcelona’kupkuy’omo
jana’ yosyi’kuyjinh’tampä
ji’ myusyi’a’e’päis tzyi’apya’ä kastiya’ore
yäjktampä pänhtam’ makyapapä tunh’omo
ma’a’ wyjtyi’ajpapä
pänh’tam yisanh’sajyaj’papä’is yose’ teserike nyi’atzku’tyam
eyapäis wynanh’omoram
Te’is nyi.’ ijtyaju nhkyomi
äjtzi ijtkeruri äj’ nhkomi
tese’ yajk’ maya’yajpatzi tyi’oyaistam
myajk’kyaräjpa’ankä te mossos d’esquadras’tam
jujtzyi’e myta’ yanhku’kamä’yaräi
yajk’ tumya’räi numyajpapä’jinh teserike yajka’oye’jinh’tam
Wenenh’omo makatzi mujapä tunh’omo
makatzi Barceloneta makatzi Ramblas
tese’ a’myajpatzi mumu’ te’ yäjtampä pänhtam
tyi’okyajpapäis popo’pä tyi’uku’ najs’käjsi
makajse wyruya’e mäja’ meya’omo
makajse nu’kya’e syi’utya’räjpamä
te’ kupkuy’ jina’ yispäjkya’epä, nhkysa’yaräjpamä’
Jiksekanhte’ tzäpyapä tekoroya’ram
topyapä’tzokoy
te’ tyi’umpä konuks’kuy
juwä’ mujspa’ jonh’tzyijse’ toyapäjk’kya’ä
Te’is nyiä’ ijtyaju tumä nhkyomi tanä’ompapä
kyäwä’nyi’ajpapä kyämunh’nhkämä
une’is wyanh’janhmoky’usyi’e
yajka’oye’is wyanh’janhmoky’usyi’e
Tekoroya tuj’omo
mumu’ kasäjpa watyajpa
jyampä’yajpa yä’ mäja’kupkuy
jurä ni’is ji’ nhjyajm’jayaräi nyi’oyiram
Te’istam nyiä’ ijtyi’aju nhkyomiram
sunyi’ ompapä
nyiä’ ijtyajkeruri’ tumä popo’ruku
aku’ajkpapä sunyi anhkam’papä
nyiä’ ijtyaju tumä ma’a
wäkä jana’ yos’kaya’ä
nyiä’ ijtyaju tumä popo’ruku nhtä’ pakspapä nhtä’ sinh’papä
wäkä mujsä pyoya’ä ya’yi
jene yayi ji’ nhkyäpatyi’a’emä te’ mossos d’esquadras’tam
ji’ nhkyäpatyi’a’emä te’ nhkysa’yajpapäis yäjktampä pänhtam
ji’ nhkyäpatyi’a’emä nhtä’ nhkomi’is tyi’o’tyi’ajkuyis

as a child, i learned
while killing, do not think about being killed.

            when you are five, you will watch your father,
            while skinning a deer, rip the hide from the muscle
            like pulling apart the velcro on your pink light-up sneakers
            after you get home from your first day of kindergarten.

as a child, i learned
the right body can be resurrected to walk on water.

            it is the summer after second grade and
            insects you will never learn the name of float on top of the river,
            and you watch as they glide and you hold your breath.

            just trust the water, they said.
            trust you will float, and you will float.

            you were always a child that sank.

as a child, i learned
when a rabbit dies, it will scream so loud
you will think of this death-sound with every other death after.
even the quiet ones, as if this loudness could out-wail death,
as if there is no other option but to break open the air
with your grief the same way your father cracked apart the
deer’s ribs to pull its heart out.

            you have never eaten another animal’s heart,
            but you watch your father cut the bottom third off with a pocket knife
            and skewer it along a stick he finds by the edge of the woods.

            when it emerges, gleaming and slick from the smoke of the fire,
            dripping with grease and blood-fat,
            you smell this heart-third
            and even though you can still see your father’s hands
            red and pulped and trembling
            as he pulls out the center of this creature,
            you can’t help but notice your mouth water.

now, you think of which parts of yourself
you will slice off to make a meal from,
how you can rip your girlhood off you
with nothing but the right pair of hands,
which parts you could snap the blood vessels from,
easy as pulling out a weed,
all your good blood shaken loose like so much dirt.

            so consider this a window,
            consider the surgeon a precise and humble butcher,
            who fills the future with your own blood,
            which is, after all,
            the only water you’ve ever found safe enough to trust,
to close your eyes in,
and float.

In the beginning there was darkness,
then a bunch of other stuff—and lots of people.
Some things were said and loosely interpreted,

or maybe things were not communicated clearly.
Regardless—there has always been an index.
That thing about the meek—how we

shall inherit the earth; that was a promise
made in a treaty at the dawn of time
agreed upon in primordial darkness                

and documented in the spiritual record.
The nature of the agreement was thus:
The world will seemingly be pushed past capacity.

A new planet will be “discovered” 31 light-years away.   
Space travel will advance rapidly,
making the journey feasible. The ice sheets will melt.

Things will get ugly. The only way to leave
will be to buy a ticket. Tickets will be priced at exactly
the amount that can be accrued

by abandoning basic humanity.
The index will show how you came by your fortune:            
If you murdered, trafficked or exploited the vulnerable,

stole, embezzled, poisoned, cheated, swindled,
or otherwise subdued nature to come by wealth
great enough to afford passage to the new earth;

if your ancestors did these things and you’ve done nothing
to benefit from their crimes yet do nothing to atone
through returning inherited wealth to the greater good

you shall be granted passage. It was agreed.
The meek shall stay, the powerful shall leave.
And it all shall start again.

The meek shall inherit the earth,
and what shall we do with it,
but set about putting aside our meekness?