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We drink our freedom like we're

inhaling a thick milkshake,

intoxicating ourselves with the

sugary light-headedness of 

cold granules on our tongues. 

We sip it through cold lips

like red beet soup,

the borscht my Polish grandmother

didn't get to sip when she was us,

nourishing ourselves with

warmth in out bellies that

so many don't enjoy because

there is no wood. 

We dream our freedom like

sleeping in on Saturdays, 

2/6, a never ending number, of our brain awake,

the other 1/3 hiding from

daylight, from truth,

from Spanish homework to 

look up el cinco de mayo, to

learn about the plight of the

Mexican people, how

they had no freedom. 

We drink ours like a milkshake. 






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