Quién soy

 

They say my skin is too porcelain

for my Hispanic roots.

“Weda”

Down the veins in my arms

I come from brown calloused hands

and torn knuckles with

blood running down the tips

of my fingers.

Green, and yellow tears

fall down my face into the faint cries;

“iViva la Mexico!”

I come from seeing murals of Guadeloupe

walking down the street.

Shining in the light,

the reflection of her golden veil

shines down on my necklace.

“Oh Virgen Inmaculada Madre”.

I come from the strums of hand crafted guitars,

played with tarnished hands

by the men crowned in sombreros.

They sing to the stars

next to the girls swaying

in red folklorico dresses topped

with flowers across their heads.

“Bailarle el agua.”

I come from hand painted skulls.

crafted in remembrance.

Lighting a candle to the moon and

setting it on the alter,

by the yellow glow.

“Nuestros muertos no están muertos para nosotros.”