I came to find you,
padre mio,
here in these
eucalyptus
tall
fragrant
elegant
long
at dusk,
a dog’s
bark
echoes
deep
in the high valley,
the wild grass
hides
nighthawks,
and
winding creeks.
The rains have
come and gone,
the corn is high
and mouths are fed.
Here the rules
are simple,
plant,
sow,
pray
and drink chicha
on Sundays.
Walk to town
in your best colors,
greet the neighbors
and share a tale
a meal
a smile
or nod,
but home by dusk
to close the gate,
feed the dogs
and wait for
the stars
to unfold
their stories
in the night sky.
Down in town,
the smell of Sunday
ajiaco:
still fills the night air,
and slowly
the music fades
at the plazita
as the musicians
trail up the hills
by the light
of the moon :
the last cumbia
still droning
in their footsteps….
I came
a child
clinging
to some unseen hand
eyes closed
holding
an unheard wish,
a simple
prayer
on my lips:
somewhere
many years ago
I lost my way.
Small girl
raven haired
olive skinned
staring at glass
and metal
towers,
anchored
chiseled
hard
by grey winters,
speaking
a learned tongue,
but in my dreams
I heard the
softest
tones
soothing
me to
peaceful
sleep.
Woman
mother
grandmother
all in one:
bearing the scars
of another country
I came in search
of my soul:
for so long
I walked
determined
I had it right,
but
I had it wrong.
You cannot
unmake
who you are:
what is in your heart
and blood,
no matter
how thick the disguise.
In these mountains,
I see myself
reflected
back over
centuries
I hear my hidden
language
in the songs
the children sing,
and in the eyes
of the old men
I recognize my father.
“Tonight,
my father wrote:
I could write
the saddest poems
for
mi hija lejana” –
but here
in this rich land
as I walk
past fields
churned
by horse drawn
ploughs
same as ever,
I smile
to know
I am finally home.
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