a tree to call home

kimberley rodriguez sanchez

Mama was picking mangos, As she drank the white sweet milk, As stems were broken from the undeveloped. Jorge was swinging, His feet cracked and dirtied, peeled dead skin like oranges Black smudges and cuts that never healed His pebbled back was sizzled, rugged Un trabajador, a worker Yet he still smiled on.

Luis Carlos was picking banana leaves, His eyes were shot, Yet blood never seeped out of them. Olives were ripe in the middle, meat was soft and moist Wrapped in pure greenery from the tree. Tamales.

Dressed in plaid of lumberjacks and glossy heels, Aaron was sitting, holding literature in his hands  He loved reading as such as Catherine loved Heathcliff. Meagan,  Face marked with ferocity, Was calmly tossing a ball into the air. Her season has ended, a Scholar Athlete On home base. 

Night fell. Starlight seeped through the leaves, But view from the ground was nothing. The moon was hiding from me. Just leaves rustling, Owls cooing, And the beetles scrambling to sleep.

I looked up, Stood. All have gone to sleep now. Now, the question is Which will allow me to see the stars and moon better?

Which tree do I call Home?

Kim is a junior majoring in International Relations along with a minor in Spanish. She grew up in a Guatemalan-immigrant household in New York, but lived in a predominantly white town. Her poem reflects the ongoing identity crisis she finds herself in - in other words, the confusion of differing labels she should call herself. While she may have grown up here in the United States, her heart belongs in Guatemala, where most of her family still live and where she found her inspiration in helping others in Latin America through humanitarian work.