i am a beautiful and fucking ugly thing
so live. create. kill.
we were young brown children with native tongues
with bullets passing through trying to catch our
faith and running souls. mama stayed
planted to the earth with her
god-stomach.
she didn’t cry when they caught her soul.
she didn’t bleed the colors of man.
she didn’t listen to the birds and pleads of children,
but reached for dad and my sister, buried deep
in the eye of her heart, and walked
back home.
