by Julián Esteban Torres López

Foreign and familiar, there is sadness
in his eyes when he looks in the mirror. 

There are no gods to save such a
beast of burden, such a
half human. A hybrid. Nor does he
care for their propaganda. Instead,
his sadness sighs before him because
he knows so little of his ancestors,
of the past that cultivated him.

He is from somewhere else.

He places his fingers on the craters of his face;
Searches for footprints left behind by his great
and not-so-great grandparents. 

The Iberian,
the Brit,
the Italian,
who took to the seas for promise
of riches in the Americas.

The Africans from a continent impaled
and gutted by the very same men who searched
for El Dorado’s gold.

And the Amerindian women whose legs
were forced open, because with “savages,”
when the holy book did not civilize,
every kind of purifying means was justified.

His beard bites at his fingers, as if walking
on a sheet of nails. He’s careful to not apply
too much pressure. He fears what
he will discover in his blood if pricked
and the scars reopen.

Hunched, his Emberá Katío eyes
wander across the map of his face,
seeking lost tribes.