A DAY OF ATTEMPTED DESTRUCTION
This world would chew me up and spit me out if I let it
It would quiet me, destroy me
Rob me of my God
Whiten me,
Erase the Brown in me
Massacre my indigenous ancestors
Undo the accent in my father’s name
It would anglo-cize my tongue
Remove the rolling Rs
Limping my hair
Uncurling the locks on my daughter’s
It would thin my lips and rethicken them collagened
Calling them new and undiscovered
It would claim my flesh in tanning bottles
Test medicines in my womb
Sterilizing my hopes for children
And call it reproductive rights
Shush me and call it women’s rights
Silence me and render it equality
This world would rip the hejab off my head
with threats
It would force citizenship on my people
and then call us [redacted],
ignorant, unqualified, Hispanic
This world would take my lands
and call me immigrant
refuse me education and then undocument me
use my labor and enslave me
claiming all the while to not need me
This world would destroy me if I let it
I resist and abate it
Prostrate it – only to God
Fists up, cocked up
unpacified,
seeds cannot die
Author’s Note: All Puerto Ricans know what happens when you get hurt as a child; someone grabs you and says, “Sana sana culito de rana.” Right after, you wait for the healing that will come tomorrow, if not today. But what happens to the wounds that no one sings to or kisses away? How do we learn to heal them? To heal ourselves?