I. The Trial
Wandering...
Across the paths
Of the lost
There is no guidance
In these green signs
Tourist information
Holds no secret
To the keys
Of identity.
Struggling through
The miasma
Trying to define
That which borders
Definition.
Cutting across
The prairie
Sun baked
And dust coated`
Herein lies
The legacy
Of the mixed blood.
Walking through
The city
Bronze statues
Leering with
Impossible size,
Surrounded by
Brothers and sisters,
Yet passing,
Unrecognized.
II. The Jury
What secrets
Lie in an accent,
Concealed,
By pigment,
Hidden,
Within the shape
Of an eye.
If only
All our destinies
Were so easily
Discerned.
And yet
When the
Gathering of nations
Culminates into one,
They turn away
In fear
Of what
May come next,
In fear
Of what
May be lost.
So we who are
Of the mixed den,
Are we then
Those neither
Wolf nor dog,
Are we then
Born disputed?
Belonging
To neither
Our mother
Or our father
We are
The unclaimed
The unspoken,
The forbidden,
The examples
Of why
Good girls
Stay with
Their own kind.
III. The Verdict.
Where is our worth,
Beyond that
Of warning?
Can we ever be
Something beyond
A reminder?
Accepted
By neither one
Nor the other,
Even amongst
Our own ranks
We fight
Over who holds
The greatest
Blood quantum
The greatest
Amount
Of belonging.
Yet
None of us
Belong.
Out of
This patchwork quilt
Of histories,
Out of
This hodge-podge
Of heritage,
We may
Just craft
Our own.
Descended from blood...
Slavering hounds of
Alvarado's leagues,
The end of the fourth sun,
Fall of the snake god.
You left us!
Oh Quetzecoatl,
These blue plumes
Hold only sadness,
Toiling in the grape fields
Soaked in greed.
Bereft of spirit and land,
Lobos y coyotes,
We are the scourge!
Of once fertile fields,
Thrust beneath the
Blanket of history.
Gagged by myth,
And bound by poisoned soil.
What raft tossed across
Dark seas—depressed
And uncertain how
We spat upon your name.
Montezuma, a tragic
Priest, the calendar
Of days smashed
Across textile factory
Stones.
Children stolen by
The hounds,
Reebok and cocaine.
Dark eyes dirt tracked,
Hands hard worn,
It is a crime to look
For freedom.
Zapatistas hunted
Through the jungle,
Melting into villages,
Day time farmer,
Night time jaguar.
Soldiers stomp across
Their fathers fields,
Misery conscripted
And stained in blood
Across church steps.
Chiapas! Alvarado! Columbus! De Soto! Aguilar! Río Negro! Cortés! Pizarro!
The names stagger across consciousness,
Atrocities too bright to pin to print.
Struggle through
Overworked land,
Irrigation failing,
Children mewl
In their mothers’
Sun-stretched
Shadows.
Where is our serpent now?
Betrayed by the pass
Of the ordained day,
Stone temples buried in vine,
Yet the buildings bear the colors.
The women weave still.
Tourists glare and demand
Their stereotypes filled.
City's filth cakes
The playa.
Turtle shells
Pile beside the sea
Where Quetzecoatl
Floated away,
Fleeing the mirror
That revealed him
A man
Mickey C. is an introverted, single-by-choice mother, disabled veteran, a former diesel mechanic, house painter, wild-land fire fighter, and body builder. She is fully retired from the military and the world, and spends most of her time chasing down mischievous demon spawn, working on various multimedia art projects, being outraged, and writing.