Brazos De Mar Y Luna

I have come to love my room, where I am my own enemy and hero. My altar is in the corner, La Virgen (another Xicana), painted under Her aura, is there. All the different ways She can be portrayed look over me while I sleep, along with the letters from my grandparents, from a lost love, from current romance. She sees me fighting with myself to sleep.

The books at that end of the bed taunt me for not reading them. The boxes of crafts pile higher as the months move on. The yearbooks of all the schools I’ve moved from remind me of the people who don’t remember me. But I’m trying to remember me.

I write & write & write & document & write & analyze & write & research & write myself into these pages that are so fragile, so flammable.

Soy antepasados, soy antepasada. Recuérdame por mis abrazos, por todos los tiempos que te escribe. Recuerdame cuando camino al mar y no regresó, la luna llevándome en sus brazos que se encuentren en el fondo del mar, y la Diosa me besa otra vez.

I am my ancestors, I am an ancestor. Remember me for my embraces, for all the times I wrote to you. Remember me when I walk to the sea and don’t return, the moon taking me in her arms that find me at the bottom of the ocean, and the Goddess kisses me again.