>In between strands of my hair. I was the lightest
>Of my cousins, and Mamitas favorite. Our native brown,
>The color of coconuts and deep fried pork, gleamed in Pablo’s
>Skin alone, which age had tucked into elephant-folds. He never
>remembered
>The questions he asked me. Instead, he’d sprinkle baby powder
>like ashes
>On the backs of our necks. This WWII General who never
>admitted defeat
>
>Even when diabetes swallowed Mamita’s left foot, whole.
>She never sacrificed her luxuries to her disease. So the sweet
>brown
>Coke confections sat in her blood and ate her from the inside.
>Pablo
>And Mommy and Tita Giselle pleading with Mamita, “don’t you
>remember
>What the Doctor said? Ano Kaba?” But spoiled, beautiful,
>light-
>Skinned Mamita, would rather turn to ash
>
>Then to deny herself what she deserved. A garden of ashes,
>A testament to bull-headedness. Mamita stood up to death on
>one good foot.
>Refused to listen to Mommy. Would not remember
>When to take her shots. Drinking down warm brown
>Branded liquid to bubble in her veins. No antidotes, just
>light
>Dancing on the rim of the glass. And Pablo
>
>With his hands clasped in prayer, on her deathbed. Pablo
>Crying at the crematorium. Mommy took pictures to remember
>The look on Mamita’s face before blood turned to ash.
>I don’t understand her motives, but the ways of brown
>Skinned people are funny. We stumble in the light
>& tango on tightropes with falling feet.


it's hard to watch those women w/ so much pride
that much feisty
that much kick in the veins
fold and fall in front of us
w/o even the slightest bit of regret in their form

*bless u and bless this