She said to me the word is sacred;
in the beginning, there was el verbo.
My heart is pinned not by needles but by type-faced letters,
purple rock crystals I’ve seen you before as a child.
I think she was with me.
Was it in Mexico they gave us a sheet of small crystals glued on?
But exactly where? Guanajuato?
San Juan de Los Lagos? Irapuato?
Dirt roads, stony crumbling sidewalks,
Dusty broken corners, laughing eyes, knowing I didn’t belong,
I moved back behind Abuelita.
Porque me estan viendo—I peep.
Someone says, ojo
Abuelita says, no creemos en eso
They are looking at me—I counter.
No los veas, she remedies.
Pero. I’m looking for small
pieces of my face in their faces.
Isn’t this where I belong?
Her hair—I want hair like that.
His eyes—Wish they could be mine.
Those hands—I’ve seen before.
I stepped all where I have stepped.
At the bottom, there was a freshly covered
snowland, perfectly unconquered.
Until I stepped.
Image Credits: Wikimedia Commons
