Dust, mud, clouds, rainforests, volcanoes: each one is a relationship to my elders and the battle for life of my ancestors, willing to be present and leaving us to our own sun.
The belly-button of the moon: Waves over oceans and lakes, wind rattling trees, lifting wings: lunar serpents gliding across all our bodies, the lunar comfort woman comforting the rage, gestating humans emerging out of the waters and the caverns.
Migration: what makes us human, what connects us, is our migration stories. We emerged from the South and walked and walked for 250,000 years to become nomadic. Our bodies remain in place, our spirit, our migrant earth, wanders.
Grandmother seed-keeper: Chiles, tomatoes, maize, squash, beans, rosemary, cilantro, oregano, marjoram, nopalitos, amaranth, coming and flowers, endless flowers. She carried each of these seeds on her body and her hands were chrysalis gestating plants.
Grandfather: Cloud carrier, he heaved clouds on his back across plains and mountains, connected seas and creeks, rivers and oceans, the rain of his people. He was from the cloud people, he carried his people on his shoulders and in his sweat, the sweet pollen of his hands brushing against canyon walls and maize, carrying grief and the promise of rain for the planting with the same ease as the hurricane and the snowstorm, hail and the neblina (a water-laden fog that walks slowly under the pine trees and pierces its way through the volcanic saws that slash and cut the horizon)
The bitter xocolatl of our dead and impatient ghosts that we drink at wakes, burials, disease and remembering the old ones, so old that they nourish the cacao with their longing to be close again.
[July 7, 2020]