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I.

turn on the speaker

& let sech remind you of your softness.

 

II.

brew a pot of water

& let a cinnamon stick simmer.

 

III.

think of a time before the migration:

you are a toddler, perhaps.

 

IV.

you do not yet know abuse.

you peel mango with your teeth & eat the skin when it is easy to chew.

 

V.

when you laugh, saliva flies into the air.

mother is still with mother.

 

VI.

the sound of flutes & accordions does not break you open yet.

and the sun is always there when you need him the most.

 

VII.

when the selfishness of the world won’t hold you,

remember the sound of where you come from.

 

VIII.

think of the chicks who rested on your lap

the first time you met shame;

 

IX.

think of the way the rain sounds

when it falls on papaya trees;

 

X.

remember the screams of joy only village children can produce.

how beautiful to be so alive & so confident & so young.

 

XI.

when the memories of the past keep you up thirty hours in a row,

think of the ranch jt is building for us;

 

XII.

think of yourself at forty with a child

who looks like the grandfather you never met;

 

XIII.

think of the grasshoppers you will catch in the mornings

& the smell of them as they roast for a midday snack;

 

XIV.

think of the days you will sit in a circle

passing a ceramic mug full of mezcal;

 

XV.

& remember that countries you were forced to leave,

you can always (maybe) return to (no matter how much time has passed).

 

XVI.

one day, you will be home

& that’s when the revolution will finally start.

 

- Alan Pelaez Lopez

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