Begin in Mexico, End Here
By Zarah Parker (For Deisy)

Inhale, this will take you home.

A cloud of pepper makes your eyes
flutter open, breath flutters through your lips.
You say good morning to her. You know her.

There is a world of color that captures
your hand— in your hand, dirt.
Dirt and rocks beneath the soles of your feet.

A flower sprung in a trampled field, a foot
came near your petal. You were preserved.
Are preserved.

Bronzed arms of sun reach the field
of seeds just planted, of a hand
that shields the eyes from burn.

And by God, you can breathe. By God you breathe.

Your rocks become tar, like learning a language
foreign to your eye, ear. Clouds of pepper
become smoke. You cough.

Mix dirt and cement, a new color
arises. It’s your soul in communication with
where the soles of your feet have been.

God held your hand and brought you across
like His people through the Red Sea. The flower
in your ear is the sign of his promise.

Arms wrap around you as yesterday
fades into yesterday and yesterday becomes
who you no longer are.

 

Exhale, you are home.
I am with you.

 

 

 

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