Wild America

Like a wet rat, I scamper down the cobblestones,
past jacarandas and donkey shit,

clutching my backpack straps. My mother’s kiss
protects me from the stray dogs.

Water drips from my hair, fresh from the bath,
as I cross the doorless doorway.

A swallow joins our history lesson
to escape the damp heat.

The teacher points to a map of Mexico
with a wilting finger. Here, she says, boys and girls

with eagle warrior fathers
and jaguar warrior mothers

were loved—cherished as precious greenstones.
Until the soldiers arrived.

I still dream of ships on the coast,
of pale, armored men with swords.

I dream of lifeless bodies on the banks, the gold
lost in the lake. I never lived this. Still, I remember.

The teacher says they did it for their God,
as if that justifies it.

God is not a man in the clouds.
God is the cloud, and the moon, and the sun.

God is a tree frog. A passionflower. A cacao pod.
A morpho butterfly and Hercules beetle.

A green sea turtle and bull shark.
She tells us we are all that remains of wild America:

impoverished children huddled
in a half-empty classroom, drawing in the margins

of our notes—where our parents live.
Oh God.

This is my mother’s school. She’s still running.

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Fight Like A Mother: A Celebration of Resistance and Resilience.
A Mother’s Day Poetry Collection