Judge, you have to set me free.
You know I brought confetti
To celebrate my release.
Judge, could you see it in your
Human heart to rule in my
Favor just this time? It's my
Birthday in a week and I want
To celebrate with a glass
Of wine with a dirt cheap escort.
You will never know how it
Feels like to be me. You will
Not suffer from mind disease.
I could never go out on
A pass for the things I did
When I was young and foolish.
Judge, I remain locked up and
It's all because of you. Can't
You look the other way just once.
All I am asking for is
Just one night of fun. I won't
Break the law or hurt a soul.
I'll settle for a cold beer
And a foot massage from a
Swedish girl, over eighteen.
Judge, I will clean up all the
Confetti. That is a promise.
Can't justice be blind for me?
My child seeks my breast
To feed its hunger.
Does anyone know
Where my child is now?
My child seeks my breast
To quench its thirst. I
Hear it wailing. I
Don't know where it is.
I was told my child
Was in heaven and
I should be in hell.
I was told I left
My child in the dark
Alley when I had
An episode. I
Don't remember that.
No mother could do
Such a thing. I know
I would not do such
A thing to my child.
My breast milk is sour.
Drunken men suckle
On my breasts when I'm
High on crack cocaine.
They say my breast milk
Tastes like drugs. I give
Up on everything.
Tears fall unnoticed.
The drunken men, they
Call me mother. I
Call them bastards. My
Breast milk tastes like crack.
Don't come to sing around here.
I have not the time to listen or care.
My ears are dead to you.
My tears have all dried up.
The sea is overfilled with them,
the river as well.
The clouds have come to
collect the tears
I dropped in the well.
At night there will be a storm.
In the morning everything will be washed away.
I have no more reason to be a part of this world. I am impulsive and don't forgive.
I won't shed one more drop of my tears. Don't come to sing around here anymore.
Whatever you offer is of no importance to me. When everything is washed away
I will be satisfied. The sea will reach the moon. Those who survive will have the
world to themselves, flooded with my tears.
Don't come to sing around here. I will not be moved by your voice. I will be down in the darkness:
where my sweat and my tears collide. Don't come to sing around here. You won't
bring brightness into my eyes. I am forever filled with sorrow and you will find my
tears the source of the fountains in the flooded world.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, 40, was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos (Mexico), and has lived in Los Angeles County since age seven. He works in the mental health field. His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in The American Dissident, The Blue Collar Review, Pemmican Press, and Struggle Magazine. His first book of poems, Raw Materials, is from Pygmy Forest Press.