SIMON PARKER
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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.





A response to Regina José Galindo's Who Can Erase The Traces?


© Simon Parker
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  • Home
  • Blog
  • POETRY
    • Three Poems from Three Years
    • Eve
    • Via Dolorosa
    • a disappearing
    • Unfolding
    • Street Scene
    • Said and done
    • Ingres and Delacroix share a coffee
    • If you follow the silk road
    • In him we trust
    • n.b. for Barney
    • Who Can Erase The Traces?
  • Theatre
    • Aching Parts
    • Mooring
    • The Right Kind of Violence
    • Vex
    • Take me to where the arrows no longer fall
    • Yellow Fever
    • Own Goal
    • Just Like Flies
    • Snap
    • Home
  • Fictions
    • Gross
    • The 7.22
    • For Those Who Trespass
    • Karaoke
    • We Only Notice When It's Gone
    • This is a story that I am going to make a story out of
    • Les Anglais en Vacances
    • She
    • La Comedie Humaine
  • LIVEWORKS
    • Watching Coriolanus at the National Theatre
    • Watching Phaedra at the National Theatre
    • Notes from a wanderer
  • News
  • Contact