By Amelia Díaz Ettinger
Little Green
in my wasted telomeres,
where my Aztec ancestors
reign,
they susurrate in the voice of a breeze
that green is the color of fecundity
of salvation from oblivion
today in my grief walk,
i’m startled by their offering—
a patch of neon green
here under my shabby boots,
next to those naked boulders that I hope someday
will finally carry my ashes, this gift of moss
in the middle of February,
a month of fear, barrenness, and suicide
dreams, this revelation in germination
a universe contained in sporophytes,
gametophytes—of a life unaware
of its own divine splendor
My Father Cultivated
the Rose of José Martí,
while on a different continent,
awaited
el rosa Mexicano
my mother wore
the day we met
“Mira, look!,” she said as she unveiled
what the Mexica called
the chichitic
and how sarapes and huipiles
thread in shapes that shine
the loud call of a revolutionary war
“Esto,” she said, “es el rosa
that never limits boundaries,
look at your ancestors
how they worked the black cherry, el capulín,
with the alum rock, la piedra de alumbre
mixing the sweet and the strong,
so they could paint
the living magenta
a tint that covers our walls
that eclipses bougainvillea
this, mi hija, is the color that vibrates
inside our veins.”
Amelia Díaz Ettinger is a BIPOC poet and writer who currently calls Eastern Oregon home, residing in the serene and secluded Blue Mountains region. With a deep connection to her indigeous roots and Hispanic heritage, Ettinger’s work often explores themes of identity, heritage, family, and culture through the lens of her personal experiences.
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