Run, Renee, run, they're going to kill you!The murder of an USAmerican poetess by Trump and his gang

 Reinaldo Spitaletta, January 9, 2026
Translated by Tlaxcala

Renee Nicole Good, poetess murdered by ICE (Photo RNZ News)

They murdered the poetess, with gunshots, in cold blood, as if she were a cockroach, or perhaps like a piece of pork that must be fried in the fat of immigration police. They killed her for no reason, because women must be killed, women who write, women who raise their voices, who speak with exploited foreigners, with the persecuted. She had to be killed. And that’s what the automatic agents did, assassins by nature, trained for that purpose: to kill and nothing more. Ah, and if the victim is a poetess, even better. We don’t want anyone to sing, or to tell any truth, in verse, or in prose, to the little president who looks more and more like Hitler.

They shot and killed Renée Nicole Good, thirty-seven years old. They say she wrote “like someone opening a window in a besieged house.” She surely knew, before receiving that hail of bullets in a “country bathed in blood,” as Paul Auster described it, that she was destined to be a victim of Trumpesque repression, of the Corollary of the new filibusterer, of the New National Defense Strategy, of the pedocriminal, reincarnation—so the bandit president believes—of James Monroe, and who also represents Teddy Roosevelt’s Big Stick. The poetess knew they were going to kill her.

She has been another victim of the system that has been bombing for years, sometimes with atomic bombs, sometimes with other bombs—deadly, indeed—civilian targets, entire populations, that murders people like those in the village of My Lai, or Iraq, or Syria, or Libya, also Venezuela. And it kills poets. Just like that. Perhaps as if imitating the one who murdered García Lorca in Granada, for being a faggot, or a poet, or because he was against oppression.

They shot her, just like that, at point-blank range and with confidence, a young girl, yes, she was still a young girl in bloom, who wrote poems. Her verses had to be erased, the cop, the servant of the system, the licensed assassin, would think. A voice had to be silenced, a pencil, some stanzas, some lines... We don’t need poets, but thugs, bombers, criminals. Such is the vulgar prose of imperialism, of Trump and his henchmen, of those who applaud not only the bravado of the bloodthirsty pirate, but also his criminal actions throughout the universe.

Killing a poetess can be insignificant. Besides being easy, besides everything can remain unpunished. She was just a woman, a young girl who wrote, who greeted immigrants, who told them how to unite, how to embrace, how to stay alert in the face of repression. That was it, so worthless, so meaningless for a subject like the president. Trump’s Gestapo murdered her.

What can happen to an empire, or to a delinquent who shelters himself by being president of a superpower (in decline), for the crime of a woman who wrote, for example, "” want my rocking chairs back” and knew “cicada tercets” (like the cicada, so many times they killed me, so many times I died, yet here I am resurrecting...), who had “donated bibles to second-hand stores,” who knew—she was a poetess—that between her pancreas and her large intestine, “lies the insignificant stream of my soul.”

The soulless ones disembodied her. The assassins erased her words, her desire for justice, the irrepressible wishes to sing against injustice, to bless the encounter between the ovum and the spermatozoon. They tore out her soul with gunshots.

But the thing, as they say, is that no police officer, no bullet, no rifle, ends poetry. It continues living beyond the poet. Renée’s poetry now flies higher, goes from Minneapolis to Chicago, from Los Angeles to Texas, from the country of dead freedoms, of destroyed democracy, to beyond the blue planet. It was the afternoon of January 7, 2026, when a police officer from the United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), fired ferociously at a young girl who wrote verses and who from that moment flies, like that butterfly which, with its wing flap, is capable of causing an earthquake in Beijing or bringing forth a tear somewhere in the world where there are people who sing.

Renée Nicole is now fire. She is not ash. She is a powerful voice crying out for justice in the world and for utopia to keep living, or, at least, to keep many people walking.

The poetess murdered in Minneapolis