we are the waking hour

crawling along the skin of pacha mama

in all directions of her back

these man made borders

were never part of her laws


someday we will stand next to the river

all those beds of mirrors towards stars

watch them show us the migration reflected

in their dying lights. to all the places we are spiraling towards


sky met earth met your abuela. she flipped tortillas and curfews

watched over sons and daughters of sons and daughters lost

under the tecate. sipping the landscape. she teaches her grandchildren

how to always find their migration underneath the skin of coyotes

she will show them how to peel the obsidian mirror off the moon

and remind them how to drink the waters of the sun in the middle of the day


we are waking light. watching the sun of my grandmothers eyes

reflected back when the coyotes start howling into the sun set again.

where they will find their shadows underneath the nails of dissappeared bodies

the sonora landscape eating away the ghost with no more braids


we are watching the setting of the seventh sun

into the belly of our throats . our silenced memory

eating out the curfews that xochipilli howls back at us

there is no use in running anymore


watched the mirrors turn to jade. turn to dust

turn to ocean water waiting to be re-membered again

we are the waking song. dancing in the skin of our mother

don’t let the contemporaries fool you with social media

we are the migration song of turtle bones quivering


we will on top of turtle island waiting for somebody else

to remind us that this is our home. before homes were stone

this is our home. before we knew what a roof was. this was

our home. before lightning made the first fire. this is our land.

inbetween the masses . and the walls. and the fences.

this is our land. we belong to her.


we are waiting for the seventh sun to collapse on to itself

somewhere in the end times. there are oceans waiting to call

us back to the see. waiting to crawl under the oceans blood

still eating at our herstory. where is the lie. where is the hope.

where is the migration tongue. that re-minds us . of how many

tribes and serpent wings we are and shed ever day.


don’t let them try to come and take away this lengua

no los dejes .interrupir tus aguas. tu boca. tu carganta

no los dejes . estan tratando de borrar el nombre de tu abuela

y los demas que estan en tu pelo


we are the ocean water waking sun. battling inside the momentum

of the hope. waiting for the skins of hope. hoping to surrender into the ridicule

of what it means to be men and women. what if shoe was on the other

foot. and stolen land was handed back. who and what would be migrating where?

snake skinned


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