First Wave
Washington D.C., July 2024
after brute hands snap the wooden frame of our banner, wrongly assuming they can shove clear a path of no resistance, a finger presses into the nozzle and bathes us in fascist fragrance. the world closes into a burning darkness, my hands clasp onto her wrists, and we weave through shadows until hands steady our shaking shoulders, guiding us into a kneel. fingers ask permission to pry open our swollen eyelids and flush the fire out of our pupils. hands baptize us in sterile saline and milk of magnesia. a familiar hand rubs my arms before the crowd sweeps her away. my hands burn in waves. i blow air across palms opened towards the heavens as a bbc reporter asks, iphone outstretched, “what were you doing when they sprayed you?” his unspoken question is really, “what were you doing to deserve it?” i keep stumbling into videos of my loved ones, faces red and tear-streaked, and eventually i witness my own pain from the third person. our heads of state condemn us, condemn our burning of fabrics, meaningless fabrics, but do not condemn our burning. they do not condemn people burning alive in tents. they do not condemn hands pulled from the rubble, wrapped in plastic bag shrouds. we condemn their hands, scarlet slick, dripping onto blank checks for bombs. the burning reappears in waves lapping at our palms, dripping off our eyelashes. we ball our hands into fists aflame. our skin radiates fire and rage. our skin screams intifada.
Angeliki Cintrón is a poet, a teacher, and a community organizer. Their poetry blends the personal, familial, and historical to weave stories about an ancestry fragmented by displacement and colonization. Angeliki’s writing remains grounded in a love for their family, their homelands, and for all peoples resisting oppression and imperialism around the world. They are based in Flatbush and currently pursuing an MFA from the City College of New York.
The Marbled Sigh 