I. Indigo
Paint your city indigo
and place it at the heel of the mountains,
at the edge of the rainforest
Name it
for the twin peaks like horns,
or for a saint,
and pave it with cobblestone
Make a quiet
rainfall
and a silky
fog lift
and a sun that will
breakthrough
to reflect
whitewashed indigo
like the freshwater of the lakes in Chiapas
Build a place for prayer
on a hill overlooking the city
a mosque, or a raft
and climb or glide, but do not swim
when you hear the call to prayer —
sometimes a marriage procession,
or the voice of the muezzin,
or a dancing boy and his tambourine
II. Rosary
Crammed between tables of Moroccan men,
in the outdoor seating of a café,
over a glass of mint tea,
I would like to tell you:
Civilizations do not clash in me
anymore —
perhaps they never did
I know I am not made of oil and water
because I am blurring continents, smearing oceans
with the edge of my left hand
I know I am café nusnus
because I am momentarily unsure
whether the woman in the mural
is a Muslim or a Zapatista,
because I am speaking Spanish to my African mother,
watching Mexican telenovelas in darija,
searching for Córdoba in Marrakech
My spine is a rosary
And I carry places like prayer beads.
Run your fingertips
down the middle of my back
and you will see that I am whole,
not split,
soft-skinned and another shade of coffee
you will be surprised,
as I still am,
at the length of my spinal column,
at the distance between vertebrae —
thirty-three places of origin,
and I have not returned to all of them yet
my birthplaces are cuauhnahuac,
close to trees,
sometimes named
for the horns of a cow or a goat,
but when you touch the curve of my spine,
you will see that I have emerged
from the city where it is always spring,
from the inside of an oak,
from a tree with purple bark in the mountains of Oaxaca
you can trace my roots
in the syllables of my last name,
listen to my father’s love of the earth
when I tell you who I am,
hear the sweat and soil whisper
that I am his daughter
and when you reach my sacrum,
and feel the fused bones,
you will understand why I cannot distinguish
between some of these places.
© 2011 Tania Flores
Read the previous poem in this series, “Mélange.”
Tania Flores authors the blog, “pitaya and parachute sketches.”