Who Can Erase The Traces? After Regina José Galindo
Black skirt, black vest. I am in mourning. My naked arms carry this bowl to you My father, my country without memory.
Our country’s slant sun throws the policeman’s shadow, darkening the pavement, where this offering is set. A bowl of blood laid at his chest. Fingers and thumb gather a swathe of black, the hem rises, feet dip into this scarlet pool, and a bloodied sole is planted into the silhouette of his head. A female officer refuses to see what steps have been taken, her gaze set, impassive precision, on the other side of the street.
The blood walk begins. A crimson trail from A to… From Constitutional Court to Presidential Palace From lore to lawlessness From justice to slap, kick, punch, stab, gouge, rape, burn, tear, shoot, slice and gone forever From hope to implacable grief.
The steady walk cannot stem the rise of blood. Licking the rim, the swilling liquid leaves its mark, rusty stains blotch whiteness. Purity cannot be presented. These streets, beneath the sooty bustle, are red. Will these feet, hands, hearts ne’er be clean?
Can a father who would let them drive nails into his son’s soft wrists be trusted?
The blood does not stop. It does not stop the bus that heaves, squeals, and puffs muddling smoke. It does not stop the street sellers selling their sweets, their sweat, their flowers, their gadgets, their dreams. It does not stop the shoeshine, his back bent, his quick hands polishing the suited man’s solid leather shoes. The welt protects the soul.
A Christian should carry his bible and his machine-gun. These small feet shod in blood slippers cannot rest. Coral threads climb shin, disappear in skin, ascend to my heart, a votive bowl at my chest.
A path is laid in our city, Small red steps. Amnesty to amnesia, Rooted words that will creep over and cover This path laid in our city
Journey’s end without end. Police stand in the sombre dusk of the palace, short-sleeved shirts, long trousers and weighted shoes, a line of black and white, uniform and united, held in its shadow.
I lay my bowl of blood before you. Step down, let the swell settle, and look into its depths, you may see from where this blood flows your own face all that has been forgotten the disappeared floating in this crimson lake
Black skirt, black vest. I am in mourning. My naked arms carry this bowl to you My father, my country without memory.