Children of the Revolution: A Sestina
by Chad Patrick Osorio
couches and golden washtubs. Every need
given, without her lifting her fingers.
He was born poor, early taught the value
of labor: it meant nothing, no matter
how hard one worked. He would prove them all wrong.
In an exclusive girls' school, right and wrong
were taught to her, as she knelt before silk
robes and golden crosses. Pieties matter
daily: chastity and charity need
constant devotion, ponder their value
with a rosary strung on her fingers.
To study, he has to work his fingers
to their littlest bones. Every lone thing wrong
he would right. Education: its value
he believed in. He caressed books like silk,
his rough hands turning each page with a need
not quite contained. Nothing else would matter.
They sat side by side one night. The matter
of the forum: farmers' land rights. Fingers
dark from sun and soil held the mikes, the need
in their voices solid, to right the wrong
done to them. Compassion filled her like silk
fire; it woke in him equity's value.
They talked it over coffee. The value
of what they saw shook them both, no matter
their backgrounds. Her voice to him was like silk,
and he suddenly clasped her soft fingers
with his big, rough ones. "We just met. It's...
wrong,"
she said. That night, they made love with dire need.
Together they joined the Movement. Her need
for his affection so strong, its value
overpowering. She believed no wrong
would draw near. Only his kisses matter.
"I'm pregnant," she whispered softly,
fingers
running through his hair so much like black silk.
He was gone the next day; her need does not matter.
The value of the Revolution: sand through his fingers.
She would raise their wrong alone, its father lost in
dreams of gold and red silk.
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