— for Ivana
I kicked empty tear gas canisters
through the graffitied streets
to your home, heard their hiss
in the notes you sang into the caustic air.
The city wiped the blood from its face.
After so much running, you still
danced with me, whirling faster than fear
across the park’s trampled grass to crooked
fiddle reels, our boots stomping through dust
until it seemed even the fires
of far-off Caracas were extinguished.
Yes, it’s true, there’s so little we can fix.
So much comes out
torn, but I’ll still play
this broken violin