Poem Without A Number: House Poem by Mariela Griffor

In this house,
covered to the ceiling with my insomnia,
spilling the evil
of a complex journey,
I remember:
A barricade. A homemade bomb
made by my hands,
the image of my lover and
in my head a semi-automatic
as redemption.
I beg forgiveness of all of you.
The rain is too thin to stop the fire.
My legs and arms are heavy.
Behind me, Santiago blazes
and bullets whiz at the sight of who we were,
ancestral pain I cannot shake off.
His body disappears from the earth into the air.
A heart spattered in the streets follows me in my defeat.
I think
about you and
my house on fire,
the vision of my father fallen to his knees
praying for a miracle while
the rain disappears
in front of me.