I put my hands
In the soil
Asked about the
Lines on my palms
And it scoffed
Said I was too muddled
Water-thin blood,
Mixed with sand, dirt
And gravel
Descended from
A line that branched
And broke
And spilt
Down the middle
Cutting off
Like a numbed limb
Amputated by the Spanish
By the Portuguese,
By those who sought
Land in bodies
I asked the
Soil where I
Came forth
And it scoffed
Asked if I really
Wanted to know
If I could stand the
Truth. I said
No. I said yes—
I don’t know
What I am
I just know
That I’m here and
My ancestors struggled
To just exist
But I am here.
Here. I am.
