Untitled

Earth brown hands
with bulging rivers pulsating
up her fragile arms
these are working hands
cooking and cleaning hands
raising seven children hands
the rivers on these hands
throbbed with the blood
of my ancestors
these are feeling hands
they touched souls within
the faces of those who's
existence is but a memory
these hands have caressed my face
and blessed me with a rich history
passed down from generation
to generation to generation
these hands lie listless in a bed today
no cognitive thought to direct
them a purpose
these are the hands of my grandmother

These are my father's hands
Coffee stained hands
inclined to destroy hopes and dreams
these hands became fists
and raged with hate, they were
his drumming hands, his drinking hands
his punching hands, they
conveyed an endless string
of false promises
these hands when left to their own devices
longed to connected with neglected children
grasping and pulling them into the past
These hands symbols staining
memories of violence

These are my hands
they looked like papí on this side
and mamí on the other side hands
with bulging veins traveling great distances
from the outreach of my fingertips
to the great beat of my heart hands
I wondered as a child would these
hands be the hands of violence and destruction
would they be the hands of housework and child-rearing
Would these hands have yet another purpose
A divine purpose, a gift bestowed upon me
A destiny to use these hands
they are searching hands of
near misses, manipulating pen to paper
these hands are on a a journey
across space and time to
connect what once was to
what now is
these hands carry love and rage
and it is because they love
that the violence from that rage
can meet with the page and
become the sweet lyrics to life's melody

These are working hands
raging hands
powerful hands
soul touching, mind opening hands
Uncovering the past
and diving into the future
hands

Letter of Love

Dear Erica,
See I had to write you this love letter,
because at the time I knew
that communicating with you
in the moment would not have been
the most effective way for me to share
with you my point-of-view

See, as I sat at my desk and
listened to you discuss Chris Brown's
not-so recent arrest for assaulting Rihanna
my heart began to pace uncontrollably
"She probably came out her face," you said
"She pushed him to the limit," you said
"Some girls get hit," you said
and as you giggled and laughed

I knew that a move on my part
could have only resulted in
me coming out of my skin
and be forced to break on you

I bit my tongue as your classmates joined in
"guys beat on girls and girls beat on guys," they said
"that's just the way it is today," they said
"I know if a guy hits me, I'm hittin him back," she said
"Uh, I don't hit girls, but if she come out her face," he said
and I knew that a move on my part
could have only resulted in
me coming out of my skin
and be forced to break on you

I began to breathe deeply as you teacher
tried to share with you another view
"you old school Miss," you said
"girls don't think like that no more," you said
"I know a girl that doesn't come to school
when she gets hit," you said
And I knew that a move
on my part could have only result in
me coming out of my skin
and be forced to break on you

So I took a step forward
and I took a step back
as visions of blackened and bloodied
faces swirled inside my mind
and childhood memories of
hiding in closets hands covering ears
I knew that I loved you
I realized that I had to love you
and confront the violence
that you have grown so comfortable with

So I write you this letter, not in anger but in love
because our sisters must be loved
and our brothers must be loved
and our children must be taught
that violence will no longer be spelled
L-O-V-E