Fingers

They swiftly move and claw through

The saucy red meat in the glistening black pot.

They numbly tingle from the chiles and jalapeños

Embedded in the red lava enveloping the white meat.

She dips her thick fingers into the sauce and gently presses them to her tongue 

and closes her eyes to feel the texture and savory spice of her creation.

 

But her stained scarlet fingers tell the stories of more than

Just the long work and perfection of an ancient recipe of corn and meat.

Underneath her raven-like fingernails is the red dirt swallowing 

Any remains of the desert grass.

The rustic blood of natives and native conquerors still paints the sharply cut line 

Between two nations. Between two peoples.

Between land that was once united by tribal protection and strength.

 

The land of humble and endless fields of golden feathers.

The trees burdened down by the sunset mangoes and vibrant limes.

The agave mountainsides thrusting a bittersweet aroma through the humid forests.

But this was not and is not preserved in its perfect state.

It was torn out of the indigenous hands and calloused fingers.

Instead a chain was roped around their hands in return, with foreign orders or a Spanish sword to be mercilessly swiped along the sweat of their beaded neck.

 

She abruptly stops gnashing the masa together and straightens her old, bent back.

An invisible tear traces her soft, wrinkled, cinnamon cheek.

Something seen by none, but heard as a cry of oppression roaring 

Through the silence tossed like a sheet over the words of justice and brave resistance.

She knows of the home that was hers from birth, but also

of the one thrown at her at the age of 16.

And she was hurled into the same net of confusion and weakness, 

that was first cast almost five centuries ago onto her country.

 

But this time, a more blunt and crisp language is brought upon her without permission or consent

Her broken English blindly stumbles through sentences but is always cut off by 

The eager and much-too-often held back Spanish.

But this. This imperfection is unique to her.

They can never rip away her heart, her soul, her split tongue, her culture.

They can never tear away her beautiful, but tired fingers.

The fingers that molded and brought a country to life before it even had a voice, a voice that would silence millions. 

A voice that would direct a shaming finger straight to her and her people to silence…

Only to silence….