Artist unknown, source: pinterest

Dia De Los Muertos

why we remember

I want to paint my cousin on my face,
I want his heart
curving right around my eye,
I want his brok-en English
wrapped around my throat,
go ahead, call me a spick
but you can’t even fit
my history down your mouth.

I want my grandpa’s guitar
to sit below my chin,
I want his flamenco and his sins,
what do you do when the man
who taught you how to be a man
dies?

The first time I painted my face,
I tasted loss,
had to take a deep breath
before my skin became a mural
for dead brown men
whom this country
will never remember.