Patty Torres 99

The Harvest

You Jo not have to be where you are from. It is enough that you live in your skin, That you Jream of black sanJ, Of crops singe J unJer a purple sky.

You will he lighter or Jarker than each relative. You wi II be clumsy in your grandmother's kitchen; Say the wrong things.

It is enough to listen to the colors you have seen there, The simmering landscape, La Llorona, the sobbing one, whom you have never heard. But it is enough sometimes to dream it.

The campesinos burn their fields like tinder, Destroy them so they may replant. A miracle, this game of fire and rebirth. Two children play a clapping game beyond the fire's glow; Its flames throw shadows on dark skin.

There were others before nowYou do not have to taste the salt of the two oceans they crossed. It is enough to hold them in the present with you; You are everywhere that they have been.

You were there the whole time crying, Shook the sand from your clothes, Traveled the circle and remembered, Reminded by firel ight, And that was enough.

Enough that you stepped off the airplane smelling of spice, and smoke, and old leather.

Purple shadows mourned the daylight's passing, Mourned the tunes that you have never heard And the tales you do not own.