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.