Bienvenida

Daughter of Shyamala, how many times
did they mispronounce your mother
into a jumble of letters, doubt
her crimson intonations, her fragrant
words? Did Shyamala struggle,
did she crave return?

Our mothers both, their feet
on this blood moon terrain,
yours bearing degrees, mine,
womb full, mourning childhood
geography, warm rain pressing
her eyelids & palm tree leaves
growing over so long, arching,
pretending a bridge.

A foreign government sucking her
under, obscuring the foundation
of Mesoamérica’s past, crafting
gameboards for hierarchies of immigrants,
& you as ambassador.

Do not come, Daughter of Shyamala
to stand among the ghosts stripped of song,
look into the eye of Guatemalan citizens,
& talk of securing facades & fences
that the wind will mock.

Volcanic ash in your throat
after a three-syllabled assault.
The trees peering at you
when you tell the reporters
about the example of Shyamala.
A seismic silence in the wake
of detrimental declarations
of unwelcome.

Do not say the words. Pluck
the blades from your mouth,
so you don’t cut my fingers
as I reach for the rabbit
that will reason with me, spit up
scripted quotes about what your
immigrant mother taught you.

Have you sat on the floor,
your skin & the bare wood
with the trickster rock?
Have you counted cowries
to understand a you that isn’t wrapped
in blazers of police cop chota blue
& the polyester of powerful men?

Bring Shyamala’s textiles
& layer them over the tejidos
de todas mis madres y mis abuelas
& we can sing mourning
for Claudia Patricia.

I will arrange shells & shuffle cards,
show you how I fled the monstrous
maquina, how I grew the crochet
of my hair to cover the scars
of institution.

I am the skin of las américas, my leg
bearing the birthmark of this tierra,
of the sanguinary currents that overflow.
I walk & sing along the cosmic waist
of this continent, along the line of fire
at the belly of the earth.

Daughter of Shyamala, scrabble
the words of your mother’s name
& spell her out on this blood moon
terrain––the la’s & ya’s are
not so different.

Daughter of Shyamala, yo soy
la hija de Leticia del Carmen,
la hija de Zoila Mercedes

& there are no borders to secure
except the ones that encage us,
there are no borders
to secure

except the ones
that encage us
there are
no borders
to secure
except
the ones
that
encage
us.