Spring 2011

SOMOS

latino lit erary magazine

c a a n "One s id e a n d t <* o o c spring 2011

SOMOS

latino literary magazine spring 2011

Representing Latinos and Latino culture through prose, poetry, nonfiction, and visual art

Letterfrom the Editors

Established in 1990, SOMOS Latino Literary Magazine offers students the opportunity to share their culture and experiences through prose, poetry, and visual art. SOMOS is proud to be a medium for the Latino voice, and for the past four semesters our graduating seniors have worked restlessly to increase the quality of the magazine and the visibility of our organization. This issue is particularly significant because it acts as their farewell and as a testament that their hard work set the precedent for the future growth of the magazine.

Adrianna Salazar's "A Race Unfinished" uses powerful imagery to embody the historical struggle for the territory that was taken by "the hands of white real-estate reapers." Her poem brings to light issues that are a source of historical tension and speak to the struggle of the contemporary Latin community.

The Spanish pieces explore a multitude of themes and topics. The simple and powerful love of a grandmother is the focus of Phoebe Romero's "El Arrullo," and Felipe Umana's "Mi querida Abuelita." And FelipeValencia describes a young woman's life-changing journey to her country of origin in his short story: "Escritorio del choco."

Our Portuguese submission provides a touch of nostalgia through natural metaphors and vivid imagery.Written by Anthony Urena, a student that has recently returned from a semester abroad in Brazil, "Pena de ouro" delicately paints images full of sentiment and human emotions.

The growth of SOMOS over the past year has allowed us to work alongside a growing number of Latino Brown University visual artists in addition to reachinga wider and increasingly diverse body of readers. The visual art builds upon on the written works found within. We are

Table of Contents

Art & Phtography

Color Study Octopus, Alessandra Castillo a Wings II (Tierra y Libertad), David Hernandez 5 Puerta, Mark Burwick 7

Cidade maravilbosa, Elizabeth Gonzalez 9

Big Blue (Portrait of Ben), David Hernandez 10 Portrait of Julie, Mark Burwick 13

Heart of the City (Self-Portrait), David Hernandez 14

Dark Hummingbird, Allesandra Castillo 16 Pico Naiguata, Mark Burwick 17

Untitled, Esther Escotto 79

Las hermanas, Yanely Espinal 20

Dawn, Angel Mojarro 23 Break, Mark Burwick 24

Barcode, Monica Sanchez 26 Palapa, Roxana Gonzalez 29

Terror and Erebus, Mark Burwick 31 Slow Motion, Francis Gonzales 32

Asimiliationnation, Alejo Stark 32

Newport Polo, Angel Mojarro b

Poetry & Prose

El ascensor, Lizette Chaparro 4

El arrullo, Phoebe Romero 5

Untitled, Nicole P&rrish 6

The Neighbor, Antonia Angress 8

Penadeouro, Anthony Urena 7 7

Virus, Carmen Moedano 12

Escritorio del choco, Felipe Valencia 15

Won't You Take Your Socks Off?, Ayoosh Pareek 78

Untitled, Rocio Bravo 27

Velas, Carlos Aramayo 22

Mi querida Abuelita, Felipe Umana 25 Canto, Anthony Urena 27

All Too Familiar, Kristina Acevedo 28

A Race Unfinished, Adrianna Salazar 30

El ascensor

Cada viaje en ese ascensor fue la parte mas espantosa de mi dfa.

En anos previos, habfa tenido el privilegio y la fortuna de pararme en ascensores bellfsimos, con espejos en el interior, llenos de luces que lo hacen ver a uno como modelo. Una voz automaticamente anunciaba que habfa llegado al "piso siete, floor seven". Luego las puertas elegantes se abrfan con gracia mientras yo me despedfa de mi reflexion embellecida.

Tambien habfa visto ascensores viejos y deteriorados. De los que tienen capa tras capa de pintura para cubrir las proclamaciones de amor escritas con marcadores negros. Los que tienen insultos que han sido grabados solamente con el filo de una Have y ira pura.

Pense que lo habfa visto todo y que nada me podia sorprender, pero este ascensor fue algo especial.Tenfa la desgracia de ser el mas terrible. La puerta se movfa lentamente, como si estaba tartamudeando, o como si querfa decir, "ya no. hoy me rindo." La pintura le habfa ganado a la puerta, ya que se habfa rendido hace tiempo. Se podfan ver las previas capas en cada pared. Y encima de todo esto, un dfa tuvo que haber una crisis de botones porque habfan seis botones que pretendfan llevarlo a uno al piso ocho.

Nos habfan alertado: ese ascensor paraba de funcionar frecuentemente. Incluso, el techo no estaba completo; tenfa un hueco que servfa como salida de emergencia. Pero como vivfamos en el piso catorce,

tomabamos el ascensor casi todos los dfas.

La verdad es que cada vez que estabamos los do; en ese ascensor, mi unico deseo era que dejara de funcionar. Querfa quedarme allf con el y dejar que I; verdad saiga silenciosamente como resultado de una sola mirada.

Creo que existfa en el un deseo similar porque cuando nos dimos cuenta que podfamos apagar la luz del ascensor, el tomo la costumbre de apagarla. La primera vez que lo hizo, me ref, pero pronto me c cuenta que era cosa seria. Nos quedabamos callado y mirabamos hacia arriba. Parados debajo del hueco contemplabamos la luz del sol mientras el ascensor; demoraba.

Y luego llegabamos a nuestro piso y se nos terminaba el momento. Segufamos en rumbo con el dfa, manteniendo la promesa secreta de nunca decir nada a nadie.

La ultima vez que tuvimos uno de esos episodios fue por la noche. No habfan luces a las cuales podfamos mirar. El se me acerco y apago el bombillc Por un breve instante, mientras su brazo paso por el mfo, vacilo. Nuestros dedos se conocieron por primera vez. Y por primera vez, me enamore. No du mas que dossegundos y el comenzo a alejarse de m Me despedf en ese entonces de aquella emocion. Nc quedamos en un silencio que nunca habfa durado tanto tiempo.

Ese fue el susto mas grande que tuve en ese ascensor.

Wings II (Tierra y Libertad) David Hernandez '11 Graphite on paper

El arrullo

Escucha el arrullo de su abuela, Como la cancion de un hada desde su estrella.

Y mientras que ahora es solo una beba, Un dia crecera como yo, Una nina adulta; paradoja viviente, En gran falta de ella.

Un dia sera como yo, Cerrara sus ojos y pensara en ella, Y en el arrullo de nuestra querida abuela.

Untitled.

When she dances it's difficult to tell whether the brilliance comes from spotlights on sequined skirts and sateen slippers or from her smile. She danced until she could stand no longer— reached up on her toes, on legs that never end, until she could reach no more. Dressed like a flower that worships the very sun above, her dancing made us feel God in our veins. It was the way she channeledher soul to the rest of us. Yes, she swayed face upturned to heaven dreaming for something more. She danced past sores until her pink pointe shoes turned red. Red to match rouge lipstick makes her mouth seem all the bigger, and her eyes smiled with it.

The way she moved could stop royal courts echo reminders that there is something more to our worlds; with soft step and warm gaze, she pirouetted around injustice and true love swirling them together & sentenced us to undeniable admiration. Yes, her dancing made us feel God in our veins.

Her promenade stitched each piece of me together and final bow declared me to the world her 'preciosa' Si, su baile me hizo sentir Dios en mis venas. En mis manos En mis suefios...

faint^nd^a^lid^6 ' tC> never wake from, butI encounter her with eyes red now and lips

She has hidden from the sun for so long.

Some days, she looks in the mirror and thinks... this... is not where she imagined she would be.

Some days, she wakes up and wishes she were still asleepsleep the only stage left upon which she can continue her dance.

For waking life is far too heavy and walking so much a burden, but the sun demands she rise.

She lets me bury my head into shoulders warped with dark knots from nature's mistakes rendered tender, joints can scarcely hold my heavy heart. But she barely says a word, just cries sun-drop tear stains.

She holds me close andcalls me 'preciosa' while my own tears rust closed locks around her sequined skirts, her sateen slippers, and the key longbartered with time for my future. She dances sacrifice in her palms and reminds me God still courses in me.

I remember the day her smile wore away and flower's sun betrayed stained deep brown tear drops on her cheeks.

Her tears unravel me.

The Neighbor

I grew up in a little white house between amidst a field of banana trees whose fruit never ripened and a wide expanse of guarias moradas, purple orchids that bloomed only in April. My next door neighbors—who were also the landlords—were severe, hard-working, and devout Catholics.The husband was a taciturn dairy farmer and the wife was a cook at a nearby private school. They were the kind of Catholics that got up at six on Sundays, week after week, and walked three miles to mass. The kindthat held prayer circles when a church member was sick, that said "que Dios te bendiga" when they passed me on my way to school. And I, bleary-eyed, heavy-footed, starched navy uniform stretched tightly over my flat chest and buttoned up to my chin, dutifully replied "gracias senor, gracias senora, que Dios los bendiga tambien." Although after so many years, the words began to run together like the ink in a Bible that has been smudged a thousand times by a thousand people. Diotebengidasenora, Diosbengidasenor, Diosbengida, quetebendigasenora.

We moved to the little white house when my brother and I were tootiny to walk. My father, the eldest son of haggard German-Jewish immigrants, brought his young wife to a country where they did not speak the language. Why? I don't know. Perhaps to spite his parents. Perhaps to emulate them. My father arrived at the neighbors' doorstep holding a Spanish-English dictionary in one hand and a map of the town in the other. My mother, pale-lipped and jet-lagged, grasped his arm a little too tightly, casting frightened eyes around the unfamiliar land. The neighbors did not know what to make of us, but we stayed anyway.

My neighbors had a daughter, a pleasantly roundfaced girl named Karla. She often babysat my brother and me whenwe were young. I was always jealous then because my little brother David was the one she cooed and fussed over, the blond one with the dimpled limbs and the shadows of freckles on his wide-open face. I was the black-eyed one, the dirty,

tantrum-prone muchacha terrible with unruly everuncombed hair. A devil-child. When Imisbehaved, Karla pinched me. My hands were forever dotted with little red spots. Out of sheer childish malice, Ipinched David when she wasn't looking. His face scrunched up and he wailed pathetically, and though I always felt guilty afterwards, I could not bringmyself to stop. When I was in thethird grade, all my classmates were preparing for their first communion. For a while I was too embarrassed to ask what that was, exactly. My father finally explained that it was something like a bar mitzvah, although that was nearly even more mysterious because my parents had given up on Hebrew school after I hadthrown a tantrum in the lobby of Templo de Jerusalen. I was scared of God. I secretly believed I was a sinner, and my classmates, noticing my absence in catechism, were quick to confirm this fear.

Karla helped me braid my hair in the mornings before school sometimes. The dark dawn ritual: the comb running through my curls, snagging snarls on its journey down.

You're hurting me, you're hurting me.

"Are you going tocatechism today?" Karla asked me, and yanked the comb, and yanked it, and again, and again.

"Yes, yes" I lied."Ay Karla, me duele."

She put the comb aside and embraced me from behind and met my eyes in the mirror. Olive skin brushing olive skin, dark hair fading into dark hair. The doughy roundness of her belly pressed up against my jutting spine. She was not much older than me, but there stretched between us a gaping chasm of unimaginable depth and blackness. She stood on one side and I stood on the other, and we thought we could see each other clearly, but it was really just a trick of the light. Sometimes I felt as though she was trying to coax me across, and although it looked inviting where she stood, my legs were frozen, and Icould not jump.

That day Icame home from school on the early

bus, empty of its usual chatter and chaos because half the children were at catechism. Sitting beside me, David pressed the buttons on his Game Boy. His hair was darkening but it would never be quite as dark as mine. I stumbled home from school and cried and gravely told my mother I wasa sinner. She laughed and said, "You are not a sinner, you are just Jewish."

During Christmastime one year when David andI were still kids, Karla stepped across the sea of guarias moradas and came into our house. Ignoringthe menorah in the corner of the livingroom, she presented us with a hand-painted nativity scene. A wooden baby Jesus, a Mary, and a Joseph, plus a lamb and a donkey, all smilingbeatifically.

"I don't like dolls anymore," Itold my father, but I said it inEnglish so Karla couldn't understand me.

"Don't be ungrateful," my father snapped.

"Gracias," he said, turningto Karla.

David danced around the livingroom, chanting, "Ungrateful, you're ungrateful, ungrateful, ungrateful," until my mother yelled at him to stop.

My father helped David set the nativity scene up in his bedroom, and at his insistence, it remained there year-round, much to our neighbors' puzzlement.

In time we grew up,David and I,but Karla never

seemed to change. David's once-dimpled limbs sprouted long and lean, and his freckles faded into the background of his lengthening face, and his downy hair darkened to a chestnut brown, but he was always her favorite, her golden boy from a strange land, her machito Undo.

I sullenly watched my hips fill out and my breasts begin to bud,and when that happened, my neighbors thought I was a sinner because Ibrought boys home and kissed them shamelessly, ravenously in the sea of purple orchids that lay patiently waiting to bloom between our houses. One afternoon during the height of the scorching dry season, I lost my virginity, to my faint surprise, in the stifling silence of my dimly lit bedroom while Karla and her mother raked leaves outside my window.

"Ay, me duele," I whispered to theboy, but my muffled words were drowned out by the scratching of the rakes against the dark defiant earth.

Scritch, scratch, scritch, scratch. You're hurting me.

Outside, the rake dragged its fingers through the dirt andI whined in pain. I knew Karla could hear me. I pinched the boy's bare back, hard, so that he would cry out and she could hear him too.

Big Blue (Portrait of Ben) David Hernandez '11 Watercolor and Crayon on paper

Pena de ouro

As noites sao frias e estamos sozinhos Uriidos por sonhos que criamos No pouco tempo que passamos dormindo.

Separados pela distancia de uma historia Nao ha tempo suficiente para contar quantos passos dei

Para entender o que se sente enquanto sevoa.

O sol dorme mais do que eu E no seu sono eu ougo uma musica da saudade Assobiando por meio de um coragao solitario.

Nas profundezas das arvores subindo acima de mim Reside um passarinho tao orgulhoso Penas de ouro em asas negras.

Certamente seus olhos viram muito com o passar de cada dia

Pois ele descansa tranqiiilamente no topo da mais alta das arvores

Olhos fechados e penaserigadas para se manter aquecido.

Uma maravilha de se ver Uma criagao tao divina Ciume ocultado na esteira do seu voo.

E ainda assim a beleza nao e suficiente Rara liberar a vontade engaiolada Do passaro solitario.

Ele canta uma musica todas as noites Com a mesma melodia Ao mesmo tempo.

Por horas ele vai derramar nota sobre nota Chorando pelo amanhecer

Ate que o sol brilha sobre o mundo abaixo. No topo da arvore mais alta O passaro pode ver o seu lar E todos que partilham-no.

Sua cangao muda brevemente Tons desvanecendo Enquanto resplendor danga sobre seu bico afiado.

A luz brilhante abre os olhos E enquanto ele observa a terra Ele acorda de um sonho.

A musica que ele cantava era a de esperanga Pelo fim da solidao De uma forma familiar.

Em seus sonhos ele ve uma figura e comega a cantar suas memorias, Cada som acompanhando seu desejo esquecido.

Mas, como ele acorda para a realidade do dia, Ele abraga o silencio E voa mais uma vez.

Ele nunca acorda com seu amante ao seu lado Pois se ele estivesse la, O canto teria cessado.

Mas a cangao do passarinho ainda ressoa clara a cada noite Com o mesmo torn Ao mesmo tempo.

E ainda me pergunto se voce pensa nisso tambem.

Virus

El virus existe. Una mascara no te protegera.

'12

El virus te infectara cuando menos lo esperes; La infeccion durara anos aunque resistes.

La inyeccion no causara dolor. Sera la sensacion de la infeccion Corriendo por tus venas, Que te quemara En manera intolerable.

El Virus existe. Armadura no te protegera.

El insecto que te inyecto se llevara sangre tuya. El insecto que te inyecto se llevara una porcion de tu alma.

El insecto vivira en paz Sin enterarse del dano que dejo atras.

No tiene sentido intentar venganza al pobre insecto Solo esperar con paciencia La cicatriz.

Heart of the City (SelfPortrait)

Escritorio del choco

Lisa vive en una casa blanca, relativamente pequefia pero comoda, en un canton cualquiera de la Suiza-alemana.Theo, su unico hermano es tan bueno como ingenuo, no se sabe si por cuestion de genetica o debido a la educacion que ha recibido por parte de sus padres. Herr Gustav es un empleado bancario de segundo orden y su mujer, una senora grande con cuerpo y movimientos de ballena que se pasea mayormente en la casa excepto cuando ejerce como ayudante en las misas protestantes de los sabados.

Lisa es suiza de pasaporte, aunque en el fondo sabe que con este pais no comparte sino el idioma y la educacion que sus "padres" le han tratado de inculcar a punta de mucho esfuerzo. El los ven en ella la compama perfecta para Theo y una solucion de familia despues de las recomendaciones medicas que recibio Misia Mathilda luego de su primer parto tardi'o. Lisa comparte con el los la mesa, la casa y ha aprendido, mas por costumbre que por sentimiento, a llamarlos familia.

El viajefue primero idea de Mathilda, quien inspirada por las misiones humanitarias de su congregacion, no tuvo problema en convencer primero a su marido y mucho menos a sus hijos -el de 18 y ella de 17. Ir a Colombia, al fin y al cabo, era algo que tendrfan que hacer tarde que temprano, en honor a Lisa y, por que no, como placer exotico que aliviara la monotonia de los horarios bancarios de Herr Gustav.

Con las vacaciones escolares y algunos ahorros familiares modestos, no fue problema llegar a Colombia, vfa Basilea-Madrid-Bogota. Lo que sf resulto complicado fue llegar al caserfo en el Departamento del Choco, en donde decfan los certificados de adopcion habia nacido Lisa.

Huerfana de padre y madre por causa del conflicto armado, Elisa Katherine Rondon Mosquera "Lisa" no tenfa sino recuerdos lejanos del corregimiento que ahora recorrfa. Un pueblo humilde, mas bien pobre, pero tambien limpio y ahora seguro. Un sitio donde solo comen pescado, segun Theo, un lugar con gente piadosa, segun Mathilda y un municipio sin siquiera una sucursal bancaria, segun Herr Gustav.

Pero para Lisa, las casas con pilotes, la vista al rfo, la humedad, y el olor a pescado y vegetacion despertaron sensaciones inusitadas. Reencontrarse con su tierra, habiendo crecido en una ajena, iba mucho mas alia de la falta evidente de comodidades materiales. De la misma manera, reencontrarse con un unico primo hermano, de quien por anos habfa guardado una foto como talisman en su billetera, desperto en ella un caudal de emociones inconmensurable. Hablando mas por senas y con los ojos, que con palabras de un espanol correcto pero oxidado, Lisa y Ruben se entendieron a la perfeccion.A la presentacion formal y la cena en familia (otra vez pescado) en un restaurante tfpico, siguieron una salida nocturna de los dos primos a solas, a punta de chirimfa, algo de cerveza y aguardiente, asf como palabras cada vez mas arriesgadas. Pero no es que Lisa se estuviera enamorando de su primo, aunque no se pudiera negar lo contrario, sino que por su mente empezaron a pasar los planes de fuga, los delirios de escape, y las ideas mas revolucionarias de sus diez y siete anos de vida civilizada y luterana.

El entusiasmo de Ruben, apenas unos anos mayor que ella, solo ayudo a precipitar lo inevitable. Sin el coraje para enfrentarlos personalmente, agradecida, apenada, pero convencida de su destino, Lisa les dejo a sus padres adoptivos la siguiente nota, que Theo primero vio y luego le entrego a sus padres sin leer, como dispondrfan los mejores modales:

Aunque les estoy eternamente agradecida por todo lo que han hecho por ml, considero que es imposible seguir viviendo con ustedes. Un dfa en estas tierras, que son mi verdadero hogar, me han ensehado lo que no habfa podido aprender en 17 anos de ausencia. Por favor no se preocupen por mf, pues ya han hecho mas que suficiente. Los extraho y los espero volver a ver algun dfa,

Los quiere, Lebewohl,

Lisa

Wont you take your socks off? [Tip toeing temptations still creak when stepped on]

I. Walk into Spanish bodegas [because no one knows you there] There you will buy a cheap bottle of beast, uncork the madness that has been plugged up far too long

II. this is the first time in a long time the thoughts dripping out of your thinking during gondola rides absorbing the steam of fresh dumplings in Cantonese restaurants I speak in absolutes often and there is nothing better right now than your thoughts surrounding me like roots keeping me anchored into place

HI. the city I live in is so magnificent do you want to burn it with me? [until it bleeds skyline blues] and howl at the night sky together, there are beasts within us and we should let them out for a little while

IV. do you like how we sat together on the cold floor a couple of days ago, huddling in the shade like two butterflies, or two forks in the dishwasher you can't quite untangle? 1 don't know if our ends were supposed to tie knots

V. our attraction is merely conceptual like the theory of fission, we will shake ourselves until we break ourselves and create new people who've learned not to care about the old

VI. Even slowly speaking asterisks sounds like aster-risks aster, radiating flower heads of fear risks, you radiating hands out to reach those who might not reach back because it's not words which hold true meaning (it's imagery) and asterisks are at the end of our every exchange endnoting the finish line of our mentality

Untitled

These eyes see more than you might think, for they hold secrets no one knows. And if hurt, exchange tears for a blink.

You would see that if detached from my body, my heart is like ore, for it has been torn apart. But continues beating even stronger than before.

These abs are really made of metal, you see, for they have taken life's punches. Never too scared to flee.

And these hips are more than bone, for they have learned to dance without music. And have danced alone.

These knees, scarred and all, are really made of rock, forthey have supported me when I could not stand. And transformed my crawl into a walk.

And these feet, these feet are made of gold, for despite it all, they've marched with a steady stride. Always ready, always bold.

Velas

Coloridas fuentes de deseos, de suplicas y "milagros". Que dia a dia queman, en pequenos, tristes cuartos.

Monumentos reducidos de la esperanza e ilusion. Iluminan los deseos, que derrama el corazon.

Parpadeando en el silencio, entre lagrimas y amor. Las velas lo ven todo, con inmovil atencion.

Mi querida Abuelita

Desde mis primeras memorias, te quise sin pensario mucho, con tu sonrisa alegre y tu presencia carinosa...eso sf te lo conte, Abuelita. And your respect for activity and work has become a major facet of who I am, never once idle, or undeservingly so... but that I never told you...

Tus pruebas con el ingles me daban risa, pero nunca una risa irrespetuosa; y como me lo dijiste una vez, tu tambien lo pensabas 'beri fani', no? Jaja...eso sf te dije, Abuelita. And your cooking—oh, how I loved your cooking! I would always wonder with what magic you prepared, in my mind, your world famous soups... but that I never asked you...

Cuando te contaba de mis planes del futuro, fuiste alguien que jamas los puso en duda; los aceptabas con una sonrisa eterna de orgullo...eso sf te lo agradecf, Abuelita. And when you visited me across the ocean, did you know that I asked myself where your delicate feet had traveled? Across three continents, through civil strife... but I never inquired further...

Sabes que siempre escribf tu tftulo de abuela con mayuscula? Like the title of a queen, like the title of one whose life impacted the history of the world forever. And that you did. For me.

But I guess you never knew...Oh, but you did. Because if there is one thing I knew you felt, breathed, saw, lived, it was the adoration and respect I had for you. And you know, Abuelita, it's still there, unfaltering. This...this is for you.

Canto

Otra cancion escondida Tantas palabras desconocidas Perdidas adentro de ti.

Sin alma, sin fe Te digo que nunca te olvides Y te rfes Y te rfes

Y me arriesgo a la vergiienza Cada ves que hablo Con la voz

Las cenizas de nuestro amor Usadasy inutiles Aclaran las palabras Y me dicen que nunca fueron.

Pero cantare sin embargo Caminare despacio Y recordare Y recordare

Y rompere mi corazon Quemando las memorias de un amor que nunca canto.

All Too Familiar

At first glance this path looked different. The rocks were in different places, the trees unrecognizable. Crashing against the cliff, the sound of the waves brought to life a new melody that ears had not heard. The ambiance was striking, creating a feeling of solidarity that had nearly gone extinct. It seemed that here things were different, the pace of time—immeasurable, perception of beauty—indefinable, the prospects of a journey—unpredictable.

To describe this place a peculiar fantasy, would be a criminal understatement. Its mystical shadows were inviting, its dim rays of light foreboding. Oh how at first glance this path looked different, how could it have been an illusion? were the rocks arranged at a particular angle? were the trees from a distant land unknown? how could the sounds have been mistaken? could our souls be incomplete, with a misguided belief of complete independence? was time miscomprehended, or were things moving, faster... slower... was beauty indefinable or were features blandly indistinguishable? maybe the prospects of a journey were remnants of a hopeful longing for past opportunities not taken. perhaps those rays of dim golden splendor, were perceived by blind eyes, for in the endthe path that seemed so different was all too familiar.

A Race Unfinished

I lead a history through Southern wars, Through travels scarred and blemished,

To resuscitate unlisted names, A race that wasn't finished. Each cousin looks on from behind With faces of Brown simplicity,

As I inspect a nation's birth certificate For signs of authenticity.

I cut off the hands of white real-estate reapers, Who evicted and then thought we'd forget, And I glue every one to my spine just to prove That my back sure as hell isn't wet.

amos

m u si c a -:ia s^u Hade '