Lidxi Zá

I stand underneath my cousin’s mango tree;

not bearing ripe fruit at the moment,

whilst I strategize the demise of relentless mosquitoes.

A poison seeping through the veins

paralyzes the skin.

What reciprocity is this

when their life source causes

undeniable discomfort on my body?

I did not consent to this.

From a land of undeniable exchange, where are the limits to giving and taking?

Stealing

Gifting

Carrying

Leaving us behind.

A language not lost, but beaten and bruised

by colonial voices.

Telling us to speak English or Spanish

correctly, sometimes devoid of metaphor and feeling.
I return to the clouds, zá.

The sun, gubidxa.

And walk among my people,

preventing myself from romanticizing struggle and antiquity.

I find the critic, ask questions, form opinions

and marvel at the intrinsic notions

held within.

Ones I know do not come from my Spanish ancestors,

I resent daily, though I am grateful for my existence.

I debate it incessantly.

For the knowledge of my indigeneity is permeable.

A liquid.

A mist

seeping through buildings and structures,

forcing containment.

I renegotiate, then deconstruct it

and carry an abundance of cultural capital,

unwilling

to be colonized again.