Evan Goldstein

Carlton Hill, November

Still, a kind of rebellion:     night as rain

glassed frozen     grasses. Limp hills

of new-forested     stone

walls all snow     lichen-dusted,

train soughing     winded valley. Over dim tents

you and I intone     in cloudbreak—

we did not watch     for constellations,

but lifted coals     ember light

              to thaw     our boots

Dream in Which Iguala is the Genesee

This is something that should never have happened,

and must never be repeated.

–Jesús Murillo, Mexico Attorney General

They water flowers for the dead while I lay down

tonight—snowmelt river water

stinking in my clothes—my door

ablaze in protest. Students

scream we are not armed—their fists

against riot shields, eyes

water tear gas river

south campus dark green gentle

bends reflect cornfields beneath the bridge—

a desert south stars ruddy

in cloud smoke thick ash

on riverbank. Diesel

on water pearly, languid—

under tide of trash and skin. Their brown

skin, blistered skin teeth that turn

to dust in eddy. Hands in water, hands
pressed through rifle bore—my hands

are white, soft—

dripping red I have turned away

from garbage pyres: 43 students shot

and burned, bones

thrown to water, skin—ash

gathered on this dirt as snow.

Evan Goldstein is a sophomore English (creative writing) major at SUNY Geneseo. His favorite road is Nations Road, and his favorite album is still Darkness on the Edge of Town. Evan is working on his poetry and photography, and figuring out what comes next. He would be best friends with Sam Hamilton from East of Eden, because he was always kind, even during hard times.

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