Published in AbroadView Magazine. 2003
Change
I passed an indigenous woman in the street today,
And I did not know her name,
But I named her indigenous,
And her soul flew out from behind her eyes to curse me.
I did not give her the quarter and three cents I had in my pocket,
Because I knew she would hate me,
Whether or not I gave her the money.
(And I knew I would hate myself, whether or not I gave her the money.)
She did not know me, but she named me gringa.
(A woman who walks with her legs wide open and her purse sewed up.)
What’s more,
She named me North American,
And I could feel the hot syllables of hate
Scribbled across my back as I
Walked and walked and
Pretended and pretended
To feel nothing.
And the change in my pocket whispered, angrily
Against my thigh.
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