New poem (draft — just getting it out there; it’s been in progress for a while.)
The saints of our household shrines are banding together to form a political party.
Throngs of our beloved dead memorialized in table altars in gently shabby homes and clean-swept humble cubbyholes are massing to stand against officially canonized hypocrisy regarding who we should honor with supplication and offerings.
They refuse our tithes, saying we’ve paid enough in loss and pain to fund any campaign.
Chase down and face down the Founding Fathers, the missionaries of genocide, the greed-slurping apologists for bad acts that make a profit, the prophets of compartments, the sky-godmothers of assimilation, the go along get-alongs.
“Behold the dead to understand the living.
“Behold the living who come to make you understand,
but know we do not need you to understand
before you stand aside.”
The saints of our household shrines march before us carrying no signs, wearing no buttons, adorned only in scraps of family photos, funeral cards, locks of treasured hair, newspaper clippings, the stains of generations of tears.
We will not lose. We cannot lose.
We, and they, have nothing to lose.