Monday, July 7, 2014

Hierbaloca: The Children of Aztlán

May we dance
in the living room of hope.
Our bodies hold memory—
we are desert stones.

May we rise
in the face of our pain.
As Arizona weeds dare,
our fists rise most when blown.

Our hearts pump through sorrow
making way for what is possible.
We are farmers. We harvest our own.

We are backyard children
playing, watched by la abuela
weaving through each other’s arms.

We are leaves
on branches, on roads.
Fodder after being shade
            cover to elders
food for new leaves to grow.

We are blood
rivers, mama’s veins.
We are the return,
though we never left.

Our lungs pump through anguish
manifest what is possible.
We are Texas breeze in each other’s hair.

We are nopal-raised abuelos
we play dice with tomorrow
betting: we will overcome.

Somos, todos, aztlaneros.
Our roots run deep, run wild.
Unharnessed, tainted as the Gulf.

We were free. We remember.
Thievery shall not hold us.
We have no papers to show.

Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano
Originally published in Poets Responding to SB1070