Copihue Poetry

we are the descendants of those you failed to kill
those you couldn’t make disappear
the conversations overheard
eavesdropped
the books read and poetry spoken
that which we try to take back from memory
not ours but from our blood,
a shared memory

old but fresh
a memory still Guagua
reeking of a nosebleed
crimson and clotted
blood cells brought together
purpled
like the nights
the moon excuses itself

one time
two small girls, one Jewish and one Palestinian, told me
about hereditary trauma, ancestral even
told me that in our genetic makeup
ships sail carrying containers filled with the histories
of our ancestors

they told me
what beats inside of you
is a shared history lending nightmares
for the sake of what you missed