Every Time a Freedom Fighter Dies

When a caterpillar curls in on itself, a hanging fetus 
it is making the womb for its metamorphosis. This
is how the world works, each of us evolving 
into brighter and lighter things. Last year 
at the vegan market, we talked about crimes 
not listed as crimes: the corporate capture 
of seeds, farmers slain on promised 
land. A woman looked at me 
like I had something she lost. 
I used to be an activist like you. 
To put one’s body before a gun, 
to live close to the land, to defend it. 
Those stories of activists remain 
stories, leaving me to wonder 
if wings are quixotic things that only get you pinned 
for the rest of history: an artifact of courage. 
If I’m supposed to splinter my phylogeny too. 
Every time a freedom fighter dies, 
I want to imagine—not an angel, nothing with wings
not the end of the revolution either 
but their spirit becoming an ocean 
full of microbial life, a drop of this water 
enough to observe the living cells and name them. 
Macli’ing Dulag. Maria Lorena Barros. Honor Ayroso. 
There is a world where they won. There is a future 
where their vision evolved into people 
sitting under ylang-ylang flowers, rain 
pouring on them cool and gentle as December. 
They are dancing with their little legs  
and clapping with their skinny arms, laughing 
in a way we can’t understand yet. 
Believe me. They are waiting for us to get there.