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.”