Examination After the Panic Attack: Mosaic
Jason says resilience is more or less
genetic for us, I more or less. I settle
the tie by cracking myself into seeds of a lesser body. I moor
myself to the garden’s bed, I shake that more into a puddle of sweat there it is,
a reflection of my god is that enough water for any person to get drunk on
and call itself a Moor and now I am a lost parade in El Barrio with its blood
balloons draining into the sky. What a trick I am I want
to bring all of this to the party. I call the Latina therapist Jason recommends she asks
if I’ve ever been to therapy before, I say no, she chuckles
Well, it’s necessary. I laugh the way my mother laughs in front of white people
I caress my throat, pet until it is a begging, my Adam’s apple
at its first willow, my hands cocoon it’s worrisome indents, the places
where it has forgotten to quench itself. I have 6,000 fingers,
they are brown and indigenous, but never enough.
They do not cover my face at work, in public my students say I am not
a real person of color, I want this Latina therapist to tell them
they are wrong. They are made of glass, they are slowly erecting
a cathedral on my back, it is St. Brendan’s church, where I was raised.
The stained glass is a mestizo of light how they play tricks
on the eyes call themselves many colors but you see only
one.
