Capacocha Of The Little Revolutionary Poem by Tureygua Inaru

Mother, Mom
half of my heart will always be missing, the part that belonged
to you.

Mom, you still don't love me.
Did you love me in the womb?
Mom, why don't you love me?
I'm twenty, now.
Did I bloom imperfectly?
I held your ideals dear to me.
As a child, you watered me with your points of view
that my eager leaves lapped up, thirstily. All through
grade school
you taught me about the "white man", you sprinkled me
with random facts. For you, I stood up to the teachers. For you
I broke the rules.

Every word that poured out of your mouth was golden.
I danced around you with my little bucket.
I longed for your miscellany, your knowledge.
I relayed every droplet
that effused
from your infinite fountain
to all who refused
to listen.

Pacha Kamaq, you were my fertility god
chopping me into pretty pieces so others may grow from my seeds.
You spread them about the land
at times with a heavy hand.
You were always adamant
you only planted
by need.
Did you know I still bleed?

Long ago, I learned
when you slapped my face—
I learned
that my identity was not in my body.
Yet, my purpose still escapes me
and at times, chases me.

I long for a place where no feet trod.
I long for a place with you, Mom.
I envision myself running, in slow motion
across a field that is open
a field of burnt flowers
Running, then running farther…
My brown feet are crunching the souls of my stillborns
as I reach for your limitless arms.