“Survivor’s Guilt: A Villanelle”

for the family members of the incarcerated

You’re a Caribbean woman. You cannot be without tribe.
–Willie Perdomo

I can only whisper this to you:
I’ve been called a survivor. It’s a lie.
I’ve died 2,920 times. It’s the truth.

I reanimate in Sing Sing, visiting siblings—play it cool.
I bury my heart—my mouth, the tomb. Gagging on life,
I can only whisper this to you.

I murder through suicide the girl of my youth:
I can’t bear her nostalgia. For each day they serve time,
I’ve died 8,395 times. It’s the truth.

I pretend it’s okay; they pretend too.
I survived nothing. Can’t speak aloud—I tried.
I can only whisper this to you.

I can’t cry at goodbyes. Don’t make it worse: Mother’s rule. I
can’t avoid home, pop pills, fly high. Without my tribe,
I’ve died 13,140 times. It’s the truth.

Visit prisons gripping guilt like a bouquet of bloodroot.
Missed calls, unsent birthday cards, holidays are so cruel.
This can only be whispered to you:
We are dying. No one survives this. It’s the truth.

__________________________________

Excerpted from The BreakBeat Poets, Vol. 4: Latinext, a poetry anthology by Haymarket Books.