POETRY

Speaking of herbs...

He placed a small clipping of wood, the size of a penny, in between his tongue and his right cheek.

“Es lo que me a servido.”

His huaraches hugging his feet he shifts his weight, right to left.

His socks keeping his feet warm and his layered sweaters warming his small body.

A cold breeze sends a shiver up my spine.

He proceeds to speaks with clarity; a man of many stories, lessons, and knowledge.

You see, I could ask him about the name of a street and he’ll have a well researched and carefully composed answer with a story.

I could ask him about his mom and he’ll have a clearly memorized collection of images put together with old Mexican sayings.

A man of many words.

He continues to stand, hands in his pocket and eyes wide open.

He only has 3 chairs in this little room, I sit in one, my dad in the other and the third is broken.

I watch him chuckle when he recites a beautiful memory and manage to catch a glimpse of a tear when he remembers it’s gone.

Their shoulders for me, and mine for them

Their bodies trees

Their hearts a sun

And their hands the soil that feeds their daughters and sons

I live in honor of their fight

Their fuerza, love and light

I carry their burdens and anger

And I also proudly carry their name

Because my mom’s a guerrera

And her’s the same.

The wind blew harder

Tried knocking her off her feet

Punching, kicking, pulling and claiming defeat

She held on with dear love

Toes gripping the ground and hands reaching above

But the wind gave no sign of ease

And over tears of exhaustion she was able to see that as she bled from her chest he wobbled to his knees

Her voice quaking with the force of confusion and inability to express

She yelled and gave all that she had left

At the peak of release the wind finally came to a rest

With the last bit of energy she had, she lifted her eyes and reached out with her chest

But what she saw broke her down to her very last breath...

Love at death.