My mother is a mujer of rain and love,
A mujer mixteca who has harvested almost her whole life,
A woman who knows survival like a twin.
A mother who picks the fruits of her labor for her children,
So what is a mother to do when the rain does not bring life back into the earth,
When her children look to the dry soil with no hope.
My mother is a descendant of survivors,
Survivors who migrate out of our lands, our homes, to carry the life that hopes to continue,
To begin a new life in hope that the rain harvests the seeds who hunger for comfort.
Migrating to a new home would take the savings her partner sends back from the states.
Migrating to a new home would take pain and loss.
Migrating to a new home would take a close call to death.
Migrating to a new home would take fifteen days.
My mother seen as an outcast from the other side of the wall now wonders what is to come,
Only knowing the language passed down to her and having hands that give birth to the land,
She along with so many indigenous mothers harvest the fields meant to feed a nation.
A nation that has built a wall on their continent,
A nation that has exploited their labor,
A nation that does not acknowledge them.
Indigenous mothers plant, weed and harvest the food that sits on our tables.
Indigenous mothers give life to seeds in hope to give back to their own.
Indigenous mothers feed us to feed their families.
Our roots just like a plant’s roots interconnect,
Growing despite the droughts, despite the falling ash,
Growing despite the push of our assimilation, despite the efforts meant to erase us.
One day, our home, our soil will return to us
For now we share the fruits our mother gives back to us, waiting for the rain to fall.
Last updated 9/10/20
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