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Window Days

I hear mís hermanas in pain

They cry at the border, robbed

Of their choice to become mothers

Doctors using their bodies for

Parts and experimentations

Much like mís primas before

When their melanin, dark, black

Meant they had no feelings

Or at least, not like las mujeres

Who were considered half-human

Not chattel, but still property

They, them, those white,

Those women, they had sentímíentos

So them, they were spared.

Why is it so hard for women's bodies

To be saved from horrors

From violence and abuse

It carries on. Contínúa.

Today, mís hermanas are ripped apart

At the border from their children

Their insides, their gifts

Of reproducing la vída

Their abilities to choose giving life

Cut out, removed surgically

By the anger of men and

The great fear from those

Compelled to stop brown bodies

Y quítar their human rights.

Looking out my window, wondering

Endless days watching, seeing

The seasons begin changing

Nature maintaining Her course

Layering her colors yearly

Oro, óxido, blanco, verde

Multiple seasons coming, going

Mís hermanas deported quietly

Mís primas packed on planes

At the border, yet it still goes

No recourse for being robbed

Forced sterilizations of brown bodies

Eugenic practices on mujeres negras

Finding an immigrant renaissance.

© Isabel Alvear, September 2020

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