Lizett Garcia

Breast with me, beating like a bird. In our moment all hope soared with a fragrant moon and kissing was the mixing of culture. At these depths I felt what tore at the threads of your music. I met the guns of El Salvador. I touched the pallid flesh of your dead riveted friends. I hosted your nightmare of butchers. Your fingers are refined for the making of music. Your thumbs are peasants, ready for revolution. Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982 Political- personification