American Dreaming

 





 

When I feel like quitting

I feel my pulse, her blood

occupies my veins. She who’s

life started in a shack, her mama died

when she was young. Dad forever on one.

Became a sister-mom too, young.

She could barely read. Too, poor

to afford books, schoolmates too, mean

to share theirs, she couldn’t read. Sister-mom

torteando pound after pound of masa

for all the sibling mouth’s to feed, no time to read.

American dreams don’t depend on a page

they can travel by tongue, ignited

her, painted a little bit of red and white

atop her chronic blues. Single mom

expatriate in a land that welcomed

her with open arms into its factories

and production plants. Planted on her feet

she worked double shifts and sprouted blackberry

plump veins on the back of her legs. Hung a key

around my older sister-mom’s neck, 

we walked to school, books in our

hands feeling the weight of hope on our backs. 

When I feel like quitting I hear the echoes

of her voice “Even when I’m gone,

I’ll never leave you alone” writing

my fate across an illuminated screen never

felt so easy.

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