By: Adrianna Puente
I come from hard earth and clay walls.
I come from early Sunday mornings-
the smell of myrrh and frankincense clouding my eyes.
I come from the mango trees that did not belong to me,
But still scaled up high to escape a life that was not mine.
I come from the rigid hand of my Tia,
her belt a reminder that I was not hers to claim.
I come from late nights I spent with one ear pressed onto the radio,
as I wondered when you would return.
I come from plates filled with pupusas y tamales de elote;
I come from plates with only tree leaves con sal.
I come from the sound of gunshots cruel and bloody that grew closer to my bed each night.
I come from the dry gravel and the rocky terrain stained with the hard stare of El Coyote.
I come from the sweat of my temple that got me by after the crossing.
I come from the lies of the men who hurt me; the embrace of the women who helped me.
I come from the love of Lord, and his ever-present message that my life was still worth living.
I come from learning to stand after the fall.
I come from everything, and nothing at all.