Diasporic Nation

In the city.  

they dance with breathing silhouettes 

Shimmy around shadows

phantom hands 

cold and lifeless

reach through cracks in sidewalks 

cause you to stumble

to trip and lay where they once did

we often forget what lives have lied on pavement 

It’s easy to forget once we’re safe in our nice warm beds

And It’s been said that the homeless know warmth like no other

In the memories of a lover 

with arms like a bonfire at night  

And eyes that shine as bright as the street lights they sleep under 

They build castles out of newspapers and umbrellas 

Transform storm drains into moats 

And rags into coats of armor

They become royalty 

And we...

we stomp over their souls

the soles of our shoes 

pound beats into their quiet hearts

pound feet into concrete and arteries

and who will sidestep their silhouettes 

who will listen to the fading of their heartbeats 

no one seems to hear them

no one thinks anything of it

after all 

there's nothing strange about dancing 

in the city 

and lately, 

this city has become my island

and its a pity 

that we've traded our chants for a chance to dance around breathing silhouettes 

blinded by the lights of tourism 

and when I look to the ocean

I can see our Saina

trying to navigate hotel lights like stars in the sky

skirting around our island

like leaves of coconut trees around the curves of our women

As waves pound against proas 

Like palms on thighs 

And sometimes 

I can hear them chanting 

Mangge mangge mangge I tano-ta (where, where, where is our isalnd)

Ti hu tungo' Saina-hu (My elders, I do not know)

Dispensa’ yu’ (I am sorry)

Lao ti mamaigo yu’ pago (But I am sleeping, no longer)

this island has become unrecognizable

this is not the home they have left behind for us

in Tumon 

hidden by buildings that scrape the stars out of the sky 

there are lives lost in the pavement

and there are days 

where it feels like pavement 

is the only legacy we will leave behind for our children

in 100 years, 

when all that is left of us will be dirt beneath stones  

will our bones be quarried? our minerals extracted? 

we are as much a part of this island as the volcano it rests upon  

but do not think for a second 

that our people will remain dormant while our home is torn at the seams 

it seems like piece by piece Guahan

is being sold to the highest bidder 

and I guess the reason I am so bitter 

is because we are being robbed 600 acres of Chamoru Land Trust Territory 

while nearly the same amount of Chamoru people are landless with no one to trust.

42 percent of the homeless population on our island are Chamoru 

every night 536 indigenous lives turn bus stops into palaces 

rest their heads on concrete mattresses 

they carry entire kingdoms in shopping carts 

Kings and Queens of a diasporic nation 

displaced, dispersed, disappearing but never gone

they are reaching through cracks in sidewalks society made big enough for them to fall through 

we only seem to notice them

when they stop us from dancing around the body bags they use as blankets 

and the chalk they turn into white picket fences 

to them 

you’re not dancing in the city 

you’re dancing over memories 

so when you stumble

when you trip and lay where they once did

it’s impossible to forget 

that your silhouette bleeds the same red 

it’s a little hard to imagine 

that we can spare 600 acres of land 

while our people are left empty handed. 

in 100 years 

will we still dance around sidewalks and chalk and body bags?

will anyone listen to the fading of our heartbeats?

will our bones still be quarried? 

in 100 years

will we all be living in bus stop palaces 

and sleeping on concrete mattresses

will we all be Kings and Queens 

of a diasporic nation?