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?