To whomever may find it
You will not find me
in your history textbooks
written by your
Johnsons
Jacksons
Smiths
Millers
You will not find me in your museums
stocked by murderers
thieves
conquerors
not in those hallways that reek of bleach
and old blood
No, you will not find me in your local bookstore
nor your library
not even in your mothers' decade-old book collection
You may find me
in the tears, you blink away
when your mother presses that hot comb against your neck
in the anger that runs down your cheeks
as the smell of charred flesh fills the air
You may find me
in the fistfuls of hair that clump in your brush
blackened and burnt at the ends
irreparably damaged
Just like yourself
Yes, you will find me
when your mother throws you out
when you return to Kiskeya
When you have nothing left
You must understand Mija,
pain is never for nothing.
Pain is what connects us
when we are stripped of
everything
else.
-Y
