white chair

i sat in the white chair for the first time, alone.

pure plastic scratched sent pieces
of shards onto my palms,
grasping the handles
positioned above grass at 9pm.

my mother was never fond of flowers,
told me they reminded her of sudden death,
something full of life could wither within days,
the cost of creation,

her petals detached
hitting the surface of the dirt.
i picked up her projection
placing a painting of independency on my lap, continuing to sit,
picking at my chest as minutes change.

disease, don’t deny us the right to relation.

i haven’t dunked my body in water, diluted bark bucket,
haven’t preferred soap to cleanse the cotton, accomplished apparel,
haven’t clung to the roots of humanity through war,
haven’t been betrayed by one's own blood,

brother and sister supposed to succeed together,
bestowed maturity

sounds similar doesn’t it?

struggling to stay sensible,
tanto quiero llorar                         
but i remain secure around the son.

thirteen, she survived a switch to the state of my origin
thirteen, i survived my first birthday without her.

mother. 
mom.
momma.
mommy.

was i even past the age where i stopped calling her that?
when will i be ready to taste the refreshment of air regularly again?
when did my relatives realize how it feels to walk a world of eventual departure? 

to fall exhausted,
finding themselves seated on a white chair
silently grieving someone's soul sold past a border we can not reach.

and to the children being split from their guides,
told they do not belong,
do the children regret being born brown?

our culture is not inhumane,
our songs will not be silenced, 
our safety shouldn’t be at the stance of sovereignty.

ripping the ties between our loved ones,
fill the holes in their throats,
they do not fear to speak their oppression truth.

would they withdraw their words if they lived the lives
of our sons,
of our daughters,
of our fathers,
would they withdraw their words if they lived the life of

Mariela.

— Kassandra Aguilera