here I write essays
and chronicle I publish my poetry and that of other emerging authors
copyright -free writings.

I fell asleep with the carrion sound of the presidential elections. From my chest I take the book I bought on Alameda after the march. We were women without name. We were one. I rub my eyes. Rage. As soon as I say rage the alarms of the street go off. A red light flickers against the gates. I close the curtains. In the black notebook I write: Women march. Speak. Fall silent. Below: Women insist. Resist. Die. No ink left. I draw lines invisible. I lick the tip of the pencil. N