.

She was born in favela da maré

slum of the tide

on the outskirts of rio de janeiro

alongside avenida brasil

 .

once a meeting place

of river and ocean

home to the first nations

tupinambás

later to fishermen

dreamers

afro descendants

brazilians

.

houses were built upon the mangrove belly

in a time when thunder was the biggest threat

children would watch the tides dance

through rotten wood floors

as the waters ebbed and flowed

they quickly learned how things come and go

but their civil rights would take far too long

.

for now

all they wished was to go back outside

ball rolling on the wet gravel

bare feet over puddles

collecting mud under their nails

to bite off during thunder

.

i have always wondered

how many goals one has to score

between broken promises to make it in my country?

how many young boys have dreamed of a way out

if they played in the world cup?

who doesn’t love a story of glory?

the ones turning struggle into success -‘just do it!’

.

nothing fair about this game

the boys licking snot from their lips

never had a chance

surviving past thirty as best they can

.

after the waters had been drained

to make way to progress

palaphitas on the brink of collapse

gave way to cement and stone

the mangrove surrendered to the roads

.

storms aren’t a danger anymore

fear lives in the barrel of a gun

the crack it makes when it cuts through air

the way it only paints the pavement red

the emptiness it leaves in a mother’s chest

.

the official story always goes

he had drugs on him

he was carrying a gun

he ran from the police

one more shot here

one more dead there

who was counting them anyway?

one more body left in this alley

one less in a family

who was counting them anyway?

.

children still play soccer

still dream

within the line of reality and war zone

to kick goals for brazil

.

dreams

that taste like gunpowder

like revenge

like becoming a drug dealer

because you had never been given another chance

or being invisible

until you hold someone’s life in your hands

.

they call it war on drugs

while 500 kg of cocaine is found in a politician’s plane

while the police sells guns to drug dealers

and militias are connected to the president

.

every 23 minutes

a young black life is taken in brazil

killing more than the wars in iraq or syria

wars never won

like hers

.

Marielle Franco

.

born and raised in the trenches

watching criminals endorsed by the government

walk her streets like gods

deciding who gets to live

who gets to die

.

eu sou porque nós somos

i am because we are

she used to say

.

she didn’t run from them

she ran to them

hands lifted

not in submission

wrist raised in power

she touched the tower

of the untouched

.

her hands were ours

for an instant

.

the frail moment between

the finger and the trigger

between

the breath

the death

.

do jeito que suas sementes se espalharam

quando a bala atingiu sua coroa

the way

her seeds spread

when the bullet

hit her crown

.

.
In memory of Marielle Franco – a black queer politician executed in Rio de Janeiro

on 14th of March of 2018.

May her seeds flourish and may we find justice for her.

.

.