is a door
it's pink tender inside made of sea water of a million years,
on the outside is a shell, spiky, and porous.
It twirls inside: wanting, waiting to be loved.
My conch shell mind-- lost at sea to be found...
Lately I'm faced by many doors, but I'm tied to my dependency of my family, to her.
IS-IN-IT (isn't) enough that I've raised her only to give her 1 thing
2 parents, his smile is my shore.
But some doors aren't big enough, for all of us to fit in.
Some doors are too far for us to reach.
Some are too low to crawl through.
Some doors are only for me or the other me that I mourn.
Doors are tricky
They face each other.
Some have locks on them that take lots of work to unlock.
Work that I don't want to do not now- not when she still needs me.
Xóchitl's grow in the Snow
A flower unlike any other blossoming red, white, pink petals, with hieroglyphics and right angle stems.
Xóchitl is a flower
brought to the snowland through migration,
on the brown backs of sun worshipers
Planted with a small hope for a better future
her roots are desert sands with tall white capped mountains.
In her middle is a kernel of corn.
Xóchitl's grown in the snow
to remember the corn, sun and brown hand that made her.
become clear when I look at her.
I see her possibilities.
I hear her song. I feel her furry petals.
I pick her corn seed, time and time again to replant.
Borders, laws and man try to stop her growth but I sneak her in spaces.
Top of buildings, below city bus seats, sidelines of graduations, in rows of protests, online in one line status update.
She is always there, my beautiful chestnut, rosewood brown corn seed.