I’ve found you on tile floors,

under uncles’ breath,

and in between tortilla presses.

I’ve found you in every corner of my

mother’s mouth,

and every landscape

except your reddest clay.

Dear Mexico,

your green, white, and red

marches in my veins,

and I have inherited your adobe

bricks, which now glisten

in the sun of my skin.

But I have never touched

your ground.

Dear Mexico,

I find you in the slopes

of my knees,

like mountains,

and I find you in my nieces’ eyes,

brown, and brown, and thank

God for brown.

Dear Mexico,

you show up in every dream;

you remain a vibrant fantasy.

I know you are more fact

than fiction.

But for now,

let me pretend

you are a lemon tree,

abundant, with your branches

heavy,  your citrus

full of juice.

Let me make lemonade

if I can’t live you yet.



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