I. Prelude
On Monday mornings, Gueli’s fingers swim through my black hair,
sticky with gel as they press down on my scalp.
Her sweet smelling hands are yellow and furrowed with age.
A boar-bristle brush tugs back on my forehead,
pulling my papery eyelids open so you can see my round face completely.
I watch her through the mirror’s reflection:
eyes so brown they seem blue,
the warmth in her face stirring into her red cheeks, her red lips.
It takes twenty minutes; the arthritis cracking through her joints
like old rocks makes it difficult to tame my curls.
But she did not raise a Mexican
with pelos de gallo.

I have memorized El Himno Nacional Mexicano
as carefully as I have learned her face.

On these special mornings she slices cubes of papaya and
places them in a round bowl in front of me
I am careful not to stain my uniform orange with sweet fruit,
for I remember the splinter of light pouring into my room the night before,
when Gueli hung up my warmly ironed school uniform on my bathroom door

Even half-asleep, I recognize
the weight of her body on the end of my bed, leaning
over the covers to trace a cross on my face.
¡Te persinas antes de dormir!

II. Ants Marching
Six special students are chosen to march
the school’s wide, square courtyard
before the National Anthem.
I am the only girl who picks fist fights
with ill-mannered little boys
is sent to the nurse every week for doing backflips
six feet into the air off of the swings, but

I am also the only girl who is given the honor
to bear our flag in her arms.

I strike the dirt below my polished Mary Jane’s with feminine dexterity.
When I hold my country’s flag against my chest, I think of
Gueli’s face: how her voice forces the Earth to shake
and her words heal its gaping cracks.

She is Rio Bravo, Fray Luis de León,
handmade enchiladas suizas, frijoles de mezcal,
a bent Magnolia tree.
She has passed onto me thick, dark hairs
like cholla needles that bloom on each arm and
stroke the wind. Here, I am not seven, not small.
I am tender filial pride, an army ant;
men flee as my mighty column writhes through the jungle.

When we come to a stop, a soft rasp rises from a faraway speaker’s belly.
Our song begins as an electrical buzz, then
grows into a hymn flowing from everyone’s chests.
Firmes, ya.

III. Immigrant
When you move to America at nine
English sounds like a muddy alphabet-
My tongue must learn to bend with foreign syllables.
After school, I spend hours watching American television,
imitating the shapes of people's lips as they carve
perfect sentences until I can make my accent fade
as much as possible. Nights pass by under a sky that is
not mine to call home
as I pray for my grandmother
to come to me.
I unlock my bedroom door by dark
and keep.

IV. English teeth
The first time
I am forced to pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America,
the promise rams its hooves over my throat and

I forget how to speak.
American children swallow the space around me,
their voices pinch my skin and demand
Put your hand over your heart and say it.
Do you even know what you are doing?
They wear their citizenship proudly on their sleeves.

I wear lime juice and agua bendita in my neon hair.
Dahlia flowers spill from my wide hips and
monkey-bar calluses bloom from my firm palms.
       I am not from this country;
My grandmother taught me not to be ashamed.
       No, I don’t speak English.
All I know is la Bandera de México, legado de nuestros héroes,
símbolo de la unidad de nuestros padres y nuestros hermanos.

My tongue bleeds with words that escape me.