Why am I the seed?
Por qué no soy la rosa
that managed to grow
out of the nothingness
you left behind?
Why is my birthright
dependent
on a man’s claim
over the body
-mi cuerpo-
that my mother grew?
The spirit she cradled?
Los gritos we shared
upon my arrival?
Why am I looked at
with pity
por qué yo tengo el nombre de mi madre
when you only learned my name
when I searched for you?
Why is the manifestation
of your pleasure
deemed as the spark of my creation
when my mother’s womb
prepared itself
every month
for my arrival,
for my survival?
While you were busy playing Johnny Appleseed
My mother was cultivating.
Waiting patiently to harvest my potential
Watering my dignity
Waiting patiently
for me
to look at myself
with the same love filled eyes
she’s always had on me
Why should I be in debt
to someone
quien nunca dio un penny
to anyone?
Especially las madres
he left behind?
What do I owe to a man
that never gave me anything?
— Nunca tu Hijx
