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SONG OF GRATITUDE ©Debora Barrera Pontillo (1998)
sitting in dim light of evening, perched on edge of epiphany, listening
as if these kitchen walls could reminisce
along softened rim of this heart
she gently strokes the surface
unable to decide if the color is closer to peach or pumpkin
there was a time in her life when it would have just been orange
too much color theory, maybe p.a. was right
too much school was not good for his nieta
then she was mexicana, now she is chicana and esta muerto
i think of him , a lost man in a lost land,
i see his spirit roam the miles of railroad track he laid
only to be cheated at weeks end
many of us suffered our slavery in silence
out of the eye sight of whites
rabid and rotting we turned the stench
of the colonizer on each other
with each swing of the sledge hammer
iron burns red against the rage of captivity
with each gesture of servitude his manhood escaped
through slow leak
in a heart pierced, by a sliver of american dream
in the eye of vultures, we scavenge for shade
all his life, his attempts to unearth their talons
grew weaker
until what once ripped flesh, leaving agony to fester in the night
is only a pinching
skin caught between the gluttonous fingers of life
ghost skin, brown weathered skin, void of ability
to sense, to shed, to bleed, to live
and in the absence of the gods and fellow warriors
he went in search of new ceremonies
and found white mans' hollowed out faith
tequila y cerveza numbed the pain
just enough
to exist on the edge of life
as each drop found its way to lips, down throat, into belly, he cried
for he could not
find his way home
i, his granddaughter, look back along the tracks he laid
reminiscent of the ones carved in white skin of brown arm
our enslavement had a different face
the quest - understanding his role/ my role in the creation of a destiny
that has no room
for an indio from the mountains of michoacan
or his granddaughter
and in the night
he roams alleyways
crying for his dignity...
then goes home
and robs her of hers
so he will not cry alone
as a child i did not understand when he cried for his mountains
through my shame soaked eyes
i was blind, to the quest for dignity at the bottom
but maybe that is the mystery
in the courage
to take the worm
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