All Father, father of my family
the start of everything I am and the end of everything I ever will be
sometimes
I think of you
late at night when I’m trapped in White Man’s Land
I think of everything that I’ve done
the friendships carefully crafted
the books I’ve read
book spines peeled open from reading
all the essays that these hands
hands made in your image
have written.
I think of the family that I left behind
in that far away city
like when you would leave Mother Creation
in that little house of white adobe
while you lead men and cattle through the great north.
Sometimes I am struck with thinking
in that red clay where you and
Mother Creation
formed this face and this body
round and strong
like a clay pot filled with pure water.
I think of all the things I’ve made
of all the things unmade
of the hate that some have for me
of the love of others save for me
I think of the words formed
on this mouth that’s a carbon copy of your own
these lips that confront the impossibilities of being
and not being
here in the north.
Sometimes I am struck with thinking
all the sunlit day and the cool night
of
this Mexican blood
this Chicana voice, high pitched and loud
this indigenous body
broad and brown and bold
Sometimes when I see myself
reflected in those blue eyes
of pale face men who swear
that they love me they love me they love me
my skin enlaced
with that blue tinge
like Malintzin
when she was between the arms
of he who toppled Moctezuma
All Father,
when I get to thinking
I lay there and I ask myself
Are you proud of me?