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I wonder how my ancestors feel
Knowing their escape from home
Would lead
To children ***** in cages

Traced
Nameless
Unheard of conditions
Like their rabid dogs

But really puppies still needing their mothers milk

Who made those cages you call sanctuary
Who made those tinfoil sheets you call warmth
Who made those regulations?
Ripping the child from their parents grip
I've seen the ******* pictures
Those kids were strangling their mothers and fathers in order to not let go

There's no need for translation
This is universal
These children are treated like felons
With no warrant
No warning

Is this justice?
Does my so called president get off to this?

Is he not satisfied enough with his spray tan?

He takes it out on us?

I wake up in my bed
Every day I cant fathom
The nightmare those children wake up to
Alone with others like that look just like them.
Looking in the reflection their tears molded onto the shivering pavement

I cant even imagine

The thoughts that may race through their young and impressionable minds

Do they think they deserve it?
Do they think this is their fault?

If and when they do finally escape

How scarred will they be?

They already have a criminal record for being born

How will they survive in a society that imprisoned them before given an education

Before given a ******* a chance.
The voice Aug 7
When I was younger I told my mother
"Yo quiero ser como tu cuando crezca"
She kneeled down and said
"No"

I remembeer when I was younger
I looked up to my mother and I dreamed,
of the day I would grow up and be just like her.
She would always say "No"

Hasta que un día, me canse y le grite
"Cuando crezca voy a ser igualita a ti!"
She kneeled down and said
"Tu vas a ser mucho mejor que yo!"

I remember the first time I talked to my mom in english
"A mi me hablas en español!"

The first time I asked if I could go to a sleepover,
"Que no tienes casa o que?"

The first time I asked her permission to go on a fieldtrip
"Entonces para que te mando a la escuela?"

And the first time,
I told her I wanted to go to college,
"Pues a ver como le hacemos pero esta bien"

I remember her eyes, slightly dissapointed
Not at me, but at herself.
She wanted to give her daughter, only the best!

She wanted me to have the chances she never got

She wanted me to be better than her.

I don't remember:
A day that she didn't work
A day she didn't cook
A day she didn't say
"Echale ganas mija"

I do remember:
When she dropped me off at college,
She smiled and said,
"Eres como yo!"

"Eres como yo!"
Trabajadora,
Luchona,
No te rindes,
Humilde,
Sensilla,
Generosa,
Amorosa,
y Valiosa! "
A little something to introduce my mother to the world!
Angela Rose Apr 23
You are a series of red flashing fabrics and I am a Matador thrusting myself into you over and over and over again

I know it is nothing but pain and embarrassment and yet it’s so natural to me to proceed with these actions

You are a red flag I can spot from a mile away glistening your sequins in my face and I cannot stop but ram my face into yours

I know you bring me no satisfaction and I know I will never win against you in these battles and yet it’s so natural for me to hurt myself for you
Matador of heartbreak never stood a chance
Taste the sun with your sweat today.
And as each ray clamors upon your despondent soul, allow your body to take in air.

Remember that the language you lost is as much the sweat on your skin as it is the soul inside you.

No te olvidas de las palabras de tus padres.

Recuérdate que tus memorias son flores en tu árbol.

As those soft black petals patter onto the dirt at your roots, you realize that good or bad, they dissolve into the soil and come back to you again.  

Si quieres, juntate con todo el muerto que no conoces.

En esta tierra tuya, no puedes correr sin llegar aquí otra vez.

Because you can't run away from yourself. Because your legs are stumps, rooted toes embedded in the present. But your body bends with the wind and your leaves grow brown.

Here, everything becomes an extension of you, cada hoja que cae, cada pétalo *****,
The sweat in the sun, the stomach you hate.

The memories that remind you why.

Son sólo extensiones de tu cuerpo, de ti mismo.
J Hanover Dec 2019
Slightly warm mostly beige
This is what I wear today
Maybe stripes polka dots
Here I am at the spot

( chorus )
The laundromat's on fire
Even though the socks have no matches
Everyone's desire
Not to show off any patches

Mostly worn kinda frayed
The years are displayed
Think I found enough change
It's laundry day all the same

( chorus )
The laundromat's on fire
Even though the socks have no matches
Everyone's desire
Not to show off any patches
The joys of doing laundry. Original chorus circa 2014.
Jeremy Rascon Sep 2019
My mom taught me to clean the beans
            seemingly hundreds all on the counter,
            a delicious rain
               as they fall.
Find the "Bad" ones
                              the rocks,
                              the ugly,
I am power,
       I decide,
           just for awhile.
Cleaning beans meant
                   my mom would make
                                   my favorites
   stuffed sopapillas,
                      tostadas,
the timeless and classic bean and cheese burrito.
The beans take all **** day to cook...
                                      they taught me
                                                    Patience.
I'm standing in a small living room, dead center. My family and even some people I don't know, all proud Mexican people, stand around me.

I don't know why, but this memory is blurry and filled with static.

Some buzzing, angry voice cuts my ears. The sound a sharp, electric squeal. It hurts less as I get used to it, but I've been used to it. My ears tune the squeal and I know this sound. My uncle maybe. To be honest I can't remember.

My mind drifts off.

I blink in the light from the projector. Words flash across a sterile screen, something about an opioid overdose. First aid training presentation. I sit in a chair that's too small for me. My hips feel bruised.

Someone in class answers a question but I'm barely paying any mind. I can't stop thinking about drugs. I read the words in our follow along study guide earlier and now I can't get it out of my head...my head.

The hum turns into a low rumble.

I glance over to where it's coming from, the corner of a ****** apartment, the rumble creeps through the wall until it hits the sliding door to the balcony. Lightning bolt. I'm tripping acid somewhere I used to live.

I know I'm not there though. Just more flashbacks. Just more memories of things that feel good.

The phone rings.

I'm in my car, my cousin hesitates through the phone. My grandpa has cancer. I don't know how to feel because I've been avoiding him. I try to feign distress. Maybe make him think I'm not a terrible person for not knowing if I'm supposed to care…

I know I feel something. My stomach feels uneasy, like it always does. Except right now it feels uneasy like it usually doesn't. I tell him I need to hang up. I do. But it feels like a lie. I am self centered.

I am quiet.

The living room full of brown skin and brown eyes, red spit. They yell at me. My uncle's make fun of me for being ashamed of my skin. My last name is Montejano, but today my thirteen year old self has disowned my family. I'm tired of being called immigrant at school.

My cousins are solace, peace. I'm sure one of them told, but they pretend they care and some of them mean it. I am the bully in my family, I see them and I wonder if I even deserve my brown skin.

The memory sort of fades as I listen to the talking in front of me. Projector playing a slideshow. Things I should be writing, things I know. My right index finger is cut by a glass I'm washing in the sink.

The wound is large. I can see loose tissue while I wash it out. We find duct tape and some paper towels from the burgers we had last night.

I snort xanax. I'm outside.

Someone's playing guitar, I'm looking at the ceiling. It's just a memory but it feels so good.

My grandpa is in the driver's seat of a semi truck. We are passing a massive golden spire surrounded by trees. Somewhere near Maine or Virginia. As I try to remember the place we were, his face fades. His black hair is grey. And I don't remember it.

We're sleeping at a truck stop where he warns me not to open the doors at night. I don't sleep.

I step out of my dad's pick up truck a week later and it's the first time I experience perspective shifts, his truck isn't as big as my grandpas.

This is the first time I realise how small I am.

I'm pulling into a parking space as I get home from work. I can't remember how I got here.
“Your soooo pretty... for a Mexican girl”
Ive heard this many times. For a Mexican girl
These kids  
The ones with the flannel shirts over sweatpants
And staples holding the sleeve of their shirt to the shoulder.
These kids
The ones with the Hollister logo stitched to their jeans
And the eyes that make them look so much older.

These kids
The ones with the sweet-talk, fast-talk, laugh-talk
And Juarez clinging to the soles of their shoes.
These kids
The ones with the business model duffel bags full of takis and tajin
Smiling big and gesturing salesman style, asking you to choose.

These kids
The ones with the jumping limbs and loud mouths and sharp eyes
The restless hearts and the ready minds
These kids
The ones with their abuelita’s polite ‘Buenos dias miss’ falling from their lips
Clasping hands with each other, linking up their barrio binds.
Wayne Wysocki Oct 2018
Mexican moon be bright,
Fill all the stars with light,
Shine down on my señorita;

Mexican mountains high,
Holding the velvet sky,
Sparkle for my señorita;

Mexican hearts be gay,
Bring your guitars and play
Music for my señorita;

Mexican melody,
Say that I'll always be
In love with my señorita.
Copyright © 2018 Wayne Wysocki
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