Gabriel Mundo

The Fire That Made the Virgin Weep

For the 41 girls of the Virgen de la Asunción Safe Home in Guatemala who died in the 2017 fire where they were locked inside a schoolroom after an attempted escape.

Yesterday, the children rioted. They fought
like angry ants to make it into the forest
behind the orphanage but the guards,
with their dogs and flashlights, found
nearly all of them by nightfall. The recaptured
girls were brought to a schoolroom.
They were given mattresses but no blankets.
They were given sleep but no dreams.

Last night was a rare night when no girl
was woken by a hairy hand and dragged out
of the moonlit dormitory. No girl was made
to scream in the office of a guard or teacher.
No girl needed the soft touch of her sisters
to wash their body of sin, comb their hair,
hum to them songs until they finally slept.

Now, the barred windows make pews of the morning light.
In these quiet hours, the dust dances above the heads
of sleeping girls. There is a spider spinning a web in a corner
of the ceiling, the threads shining like silver. The woman
charged with their watch is reading the newspaper outside
the schoolroom. She too is kept awake by screams and grunts
but she blames the girls for not handling what they asked for.
The room is locked. The key elsewhere. The first girl wakes.
She knows how it feels to be made a woman in the hungry eyes
of a man. She checks the door to find she has been trapped.

If our bodies mean nothing, let our ashes be proof that we lived.

She takes a match meant to aid her escape in the forest.
She lights it and soon the room fills with smoke. This is a fire
of their choosing. This is no fire stabbed in their bellies at night.

Stampless Letter

Mom, I have not been a good son. I know I should call more. How are you? Have your headaches gone away? I am thinking of you more now that I have to cook my own meals. There are no good tortillas here. Could you send money for groceries? I’m sure you could’ve guessed that. That reminds me, remember that one time you hit me for saying I didn’t like frijoles? You said, how can a beaner not like beans? There's a joke about cannibalism in there I’ve been meaning to write. (poem idea?) I cannot trust an uncharred wooden spoon because how can one cook if not for– (finish later)

(Reminder) Ask Mom to send food from home

Mom, I am sorry I haven’t called enough. How are you? Is your back better? You really need to sleep more.

(Reminder) Call mom tomorrow to make sure she goes to bed on time

Mom, it gets dark so early here. I had a dream my first night here that we were at Six Flags and Adriana threw up on that ride again. Have you been to the cemetery lately? Mom, I won’t be home for a while. Mom, I promise I’ll be home by Mom, I should be home by Christmas but I’m not sure. I wish you could come to visit.

(joke idea?) I am convinced that the grief weighing me down is the reason I'm so short

Ma, there are things I need to tell you and yet –

(poem idea?) I am my mother’s anchor holding her down on a shore where the ocean so badly wants her washed away and sunk elsewhere.

 

Gabriel Mundo is a poet and writer. He is currently an MFA candidate at the University of Mississippi. His work can be found in Tint Journal, Plainsongs, and Up The Staircase Quarterly. You can follow him on Instagram @gabrielmundo