IN JUPITER IT RAINS

f o u r t e e n

my mother, she keeps me as her history lesson

mamá
when can i open my arms
to the waking streams of sun
that bounce off his face
when i dream of him?

hija
men are like the moon
they will come and go
leaving you orbiting
the empty bedside
where they once
slept

pero mamá
when can i make a mistake
for myself? when will you let
me fall and break my bones
without rushing to me
and bubble wrapping my body
into the confinement of this home
that smells of broken hearts?

hija
my mistakes are yours
and tú abuelita's mistakes are ours.
you are connected by blood that sings
in your shallow veins. you carry this
burden of heaving stones into
your chest and begging for
forgiveness. you do not get to
make mistakes anew. it's a cycle.
you repeat what i have done.

please mamá
you speak of history that runs through
the land of the chained and cowardly
the brave and free - all of us
suspended in this moment of can we
can't we. i am no history book left
open to be read for the homicide
of a future daughter. i am no
dead girl running with no land
no guidance. i am your daughter.
i carry no sins but the ones i make
and you cannot make me a sinner
to avenge the mistakes you can't
fix.

por dios hija, escúchame
you are no freer than the natives
of these americas that clamor and
huddle in lands the size of a child's thumb.
where we all once held the riches of
a culture, a language, a touch
we now hold brittle pages
in paper souls. you cannot make your
blood less lonely than it already is.
you have right to all the land you see
but tell me, niña, who owns it?

mamá
why must you make me something
i am not? i am not the entire history
of the broken, not the women whose
blood is in my veins, i am more yours
than theirs. but you seem to make me
into something violent. where i crave
a chance to make my own life
and make you see the sun, you strive
to show the ground that cracks from
my weight. from the noises of your
empty mouth. i am your daughter
before i am your whiteout. i am sorry
i cannot erase the shadow you see
hanging from the ceiling when you lie
alone in bed. but i am more freedom
than daughter and you cannot make me cry
for the history of women who sing for me
to know what they have not. let my bed
be the galaxy: let it expand and touch
others. they will forever have a piece
of my history book. my empty pages.
my ancestors screaming to them
that i am free and willing to break chains
to remain so.

¡pero hija    hija!
what will i do
when all i've known is you
when my life has been you
what will become of your mother
when you claim yourself
your own and leave me
in the dust to be
another
forgotten
relic
of the
past
?

ENAMORAMOS for being such a huge inspiration and new friend and for just making the best poetry ever known