Tecomate

I don’t know the thread around this feeling

stringing together;

my resilience.

My anger.

My worry of belonging.

Patchwork designs of excess fabric interwoven around my neck

At times, replacing my hands

Every time the bar had been raised

a spirit creeps in.

Uninvited, invasive even.

My web of embroidery wraps layers of protection

through the worry.

A repercussion of the space and time

to think things through now.

Momentos I know Josefina and Evelia did not have

When raising mis padres y sus esposos.

I ask them estas noches y todos los dias.

If given the time,

who would they be?

How productive.

How unwavering.

Never-ending,

my brain rattles,

tecomates,

of the mind.

Gourds fall from the trees in Guatemala,

constructing a family’s spine,

and a sonic practice I haven’t learned yet.

I suppose it's time now.

To perform.

Seguir.

Con miedo.

Sin miedo.

Con miedo.