I am the sum of all my mistakes
a lingering feeling of regret
washes over centuries of my bloodlines
I am the native, the colonist, the savage,
the imperialist, the immigrant, the slave,
the forman, the lord, the worker bee, the
growing from bloodied weeds.
My children will likely be light skinned and privileged like my great grandfather, James
Or they will not exist at all
If I spend one more night teetering at the edges of relief
I remember the smell of roasted corn in the evenings
and tortillas burning my fingers
I can’t feel the tips of them anymore
I can’t feel the ravaged happiness of my earth
There is only the confusion,
What and where and who and how
And will it ever be more?
– sheila c.