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A Cama Cariño The lighter hued Christ stares back at me Smuggled in Absence the son of God appears at my bedside This isn’t the Christ of my childhood: Curly haired, olive complexioned, bearded This clean shaven martyr seems off An imposter on the bedside cross
Anglo Christ
Purveyor of imperialism, poverty, and plastic rosaries Christ of the new church of waning White membership unhappy with brown faithful With deep poor faith Faith supplied the nunneries with women of my line
She ran crying Santa Maria Santa
Few can tell, Indio blood runs deep in my veins, Taino, a gift from my great-grandmother another half-breed
Few can tell, but those who can know the secrets of blood Would you like to know La oscuridad de Sangre La verdad?
No one can tell, but here’s a hint: the secrets of blood aren’t contained in skin, but in eyes
Window to blood and soul Blood seeks blood Engrained memory to faith
She ran crying Santa Maria Santa
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