a child was left behind
in fields— onion, corn, sorghum, cotton fields
tierramotes, piedras, fierro, plumas, alrededores
no one’s child, no language just humming
father was always marking territory—
dark skinned mother spoke with the dark—
brothers threatened the misunderstood—
sisters one through four assimilated—.
in every field I placed my hand on the earth
hearing siembra, cosecha, surcos
heard clouds cover sun, sun cover clouds
heard the word muerte
on every dirt/gravel road the hungry ran/walked resounding.
from towns to town, seasons to season
ever following moons games before sleep
passing rocky hills, ghost towns, pale cities, stripped nature
old peacock farms during silo harvests
summers in the house of spiders—
Los Cambaen-z , El Bogi, maize y maíz
autumns beside ranches of slaughter
in watermelon fields I began to chant sangre
y mucho mas sangre returned the chant.
abandoned to nothing, people-less, I began to feel the dead
who worked the fields, the fueling stations, the mechanics
who once worked en los campos y dormían en los borremes
from farm owners to sons of farm owners
called them every word born in hatred
misery became fossilized tomes suffering beneath olden roots.
tierra, that filled me overflowing within me haciendo hogar
left pieces of myself— sangre— given offerings
as a child called myself tierra, mis manos murmurando con las raíces
atrocities, filth— se saltan, resuellan, beginning/sowing stories in flesh.
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Moises S. L. Lara is a poet and one of the co-coordinators for the Flor De Nopal Literary Festival.