by Cristobal Rendón Acosta
Red, luminous glow of stop lights.
Green, grass that’s supposed to grow
instead of the yellow weeds that break through the concrete.
See the graffiti sprayed streets,
the writing of tombstones only locals can read.
Dead brown boys no one grieves,
their territory claims all that remain
beneath the red glow of stop lights, and
above the promised green grass.
Graffiti marks their graves,
gang signs on walls demanding to be missed.
