My Heart Rolls Off the Tongue

I remember the first time I was called

A “bad Mexican.”

Because the rhythm of my tongue

Did not undulate in serenades

Like two lovers

traversing the valleys of their bodies

For the first time.

Instead out of my mouth came an outpouring

Of strangled X’s, R’s, and Q’s

A Mourning Dove seeking warmer weathers

Collapsed mid flight by hunters bow

Pointed index my due north

As I fixed gaze into the heavens

Reaching for my native tongue

You teased,

“Con el nopal en la frente.”

While Culture Vultures brought broken wings

to deadly spins

Eyes found mercy from La Luna

Casting illumination to the clay tones of my skin

And with her,

Premonition

Of where I’ll be and where I’ve been.

This flesh, in its sepia stained earths

Have not always felt my own

But from soils, breathe new flora

And bring my culture closer home