Gold

When I was 12, golden hoops in my ears

My friend turned to me, mouth twisted in spite, or fear:

“I think you look

too Hispanic like that,”

she snapped, eyeing my pre-teen form with a bat

of her eyelids and her palm outstretched

I took off my gold but held it close to my chest

Gold I chose because gleaming metal

In my small ears made me look like my abuela

In Cuba when she was young and

All she knew was glamor

and youth

And the scent of palms at night in Havana

With friends under streetlights and silk dresses swishing,

Starlight catching on gold earrings and champagne glasses clinking.

I’m 27 now in a paper hospital gown

Adorned in IVs and dripping sweat from my crown

“Ms. Rojas, start pushing,” the nurse says with ease, as if it’s just another Wednesday,

“Please,

Can I have my bag first,” I make my voice sound bold, and dip my hand inside ‘till my fingers touch gold

When they’re heavy in my ears and my head’s held high

I feel my gold hang, gently touch my jawline

Remembering who I was, who had come before me,

Who I would become, and who I hoped He would be

“I’m ready,”

Ready to welcome my son to the world

Ready to show him that he and I,

We are gold.