|
POETRY
|
 |
|
|
| Origin | |
| Michelle Peñaloza | |
|
POETRY
|
|
|
|
| Origin | |
| Michelle Peñaloza | |
at first it was a game
then an annoyance
then a threat
and then a postmodern dilemma
“Where?”
they want to know
Well. I am
from
a god that spewed fire
and pelted me with curtains of rain
from
a land where people found
salvation in underwater caves
and hope in two person canoes
from
a people who
built churches
with honey and egg whites
from
a family that hunted
golden treasure,
baked pan de sal, prayed, and
buried son after son after son
from
the loins of a man
who cradled words
and laid them in symmetrical boxes
from
the womb of a woman
who laughed and slid on bridges
at the first sight of snow
from
the tongues
of playboys, evangelical preachers,
and poets
from
the sweat of pig
farms and rice fields
from
the tears of twelve pairs
of eyes, dropping once
every year
from
the blood
of four continents
mingled and mixed
in one
