i pinch the soft skin between my fingers
the stretch hurt of my heart is still here

on the news, a girl cries
her father taken
abducted
will she feel
the tight hug of
his safety again?

a five year old sits
in a courtroom a judge asks
do you know what a lawyer is?
baby voiced and sweet
his feet swing
back and forth
hands framing his cherub face
no he says
no.

a farmer laments
he voted for this, but he did not vote
for this
half of his workers gone
his voice shakes
who is his shame and anger for?

i bite the inside of my cheek
feel the indentation of my dimples
crack each joint of my right hand
to the rhythm of each inhale

on the news, a woman smiles
the lip gloss filler puff denial
of empty words and blame

this ache is not new
decades of this now
scratched disk years repeating

the inbetween

there were people like us in the
revolutionary war
and the civil war
and all the wars
for a country hungry for arms
hungry for blood
this is still
not enough

how many times
do our edges have
to bend and break

again

to be
be
be
just be?

in this land
we remain
the palms that make
aching and ache

arms that hug
cheeks pressed close to
each other’s faces
sweat tinged laughter
limbs that feed and that
are fed

on the news, the latest
weekend smile
gone
rest should feel like comfort
not a crime

on my street, i see soldiers
their faces like mine
i blink
i taste the blood on my lip
metallic sharp
i spit

Bio:
Andrea Gomez is a Mexican American writer born and raised in the low deserts of Southern California. Her work has been featured in Collider, Tor, BoldCulture, Barrelhouse Magazine, among others. She currently resides in Los Angeles.