i believe perhaps the most important part of our own story is where we come from. my grandmother’s hardship immigrating from guatemala made my own story possible.
my heart pounded
my sunkissed skin rested
along the striding gallop.
black braids, straight look.
hollowed gourds lifted
me to the surface.
i can still feel the country-store-candle
wax coating my fingers
and tracing the intricate bright ribbons
which crowned my head.
the sound of the grinding
cacao beans, for the chocolate
lasted for hours, and lasts forever.
engraved china dishes
told our family’s wealth
though we had no electricity
to show for it till evening
when the little people
inside the radio would entertain.
and without blood to show for,
i left this life
for the city.
for education, for english, for future.
movie theater streets, jangling pockets,
for twenty-five cents was my sunday.
angels hid in a room among coffins
and she would run to that
door,
scream,
run again back.
half limbed seamstresses
repaired my torn dresses
from rebellious acts i hardly remember.
my mother would say,
“run to the bakery, get some bread,
run to the butcher, get some meat,
run and get some rice.
hurry and put that mattress over the skylight
so the bullets of rebellion don’t come through”.
hunkering down for days,
the machine guns and airplanes just outside
and once again,
i left this life behind.
i was born anew in a land of opportunity
and as the pounding of machine guns
left my ears, english phrases took their place.
as each evening passed
i found myself soaking away my pain
in baths run by my mother.
turning gears and pulling ropes
and reinventing the life i had known.
everyone was reinventing,
to my sorrow.
gifts were bought for other families, other women.
harsh words were thrown,
as painful to the heart
as the bullet that finally took him.
ringing bells, to machine gun shells, to english commands.
i felt nothing but anger
and resentment.
for i had finally lost all that i knew.
