It’s not home. But wasn’t it once? Wasn’t it ours before we were told who we were? Didn’t we exist before we were given these names? There must have been a time before Ma lost her tongue to shame.
A White woman I’d never seen accused me Of stealing her son’s wallet While it was in his hand. I laughed it off with the simple confidence Of having habitually survived trauma. But that night I had a dream That my lightest-skinned cousin, the one who used to deny he is Mexican, Was stabbing me in my gut with a knife. I bled white blood like guilt. My body was a colorless flag Too thin to do anything but surrender. The man I am in love with is White. He once asked me if I was “into” White men.
Read on Issuu
Solutions by The State News
