By Lilliana R.
the theme of the dance is “hippies”, which
is of course a great irony, as the chaperones
(who patrol the room like pale, stodgy
ghosts) will pounce on any kid with
drugs, free love, or hope for peace.
the statue of the mascot is an effigy
costumed in in tie dye and bell
bottoms. where are you, flower
children? the revelers pose for pictures
In front of posters slathered with anti-
war slogans. what was once
revolutionary has aged into
senile decoration. the words are
The very same that dripped from
your lips as the policeman swung his club.
(the plastic tie-dyed tablecloths
don’t know that though.) it’s rich, it’s
all too rich.
paper peace signs bounce
on strings above the lunchroom
door, jittery. inside is a
pulsating with popularity,
beats careening off the walls. the dancers
are lacquered, shiny, without a hint of
your righteous grime. though we are separated
by decades, and though i can only claim to know
you from the archival news and the documentaries,
my very soul understands your pleas. but here,
i cannot even see your echoes. and so i
stand stock-still in the very heart of it,
gazing up at a crisscross of fairy lights amid this
cacophony of gyrations, and think of you.
would you weep at the spectacle? or did you
see it in your mind’s eye all along?