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Mother Mexico
By Bill Frayer
She is a beautiful dama.
Her dark tragic eyes call to us.
Her dark smooth hair flows
Over her face, down her back,
Reminding me of every mother’s love.
Her red lips sing
The songs of the Indio,
Songs of hope, songs of loss.
She lulls me with her stunning beauty,
But her allure hides the pain,
Hides the tears
Hides the bood,
All spilled
Over the murder
Over the pride
Over the cruelty,
Over her lost sons.
For she was young
And full of hope
And her beauty was plundered
And her chastity stolen
By craven men
Who could never embrace
Her native radiance.
She was enslaved and used
In the name of fealty and faith,
But she was left naked
To bake in the sun.
But she was strong.
She survived to love again.
Wrapped in her new colors,
She danced and she sang
Late into the night.
Her sons swore their solemn oath
To stand with her always.
Yet, her sons were proud
And they fought to protect her
And they bled in her name
And they held her up
As innocent as Guadalupe,
But they slay one another
In her name.
And more tears and more blood
Flowed into the dust,
Down from the mountains
And into the hearts
Of all her children.
And now, as the music of the Mariachi
Echoes in her ears,
And the smell of the pork in chili
Saturates the air
The bitter taste of love lost
And promises unkept
Quickens her tongue.
And the tears and blood
Which blur her vision
Drip slowly onto her brown feet,
As she walks slowly
Through her fragrant garden
Under the mango tree
Into her small cocina
To roll the masa,
To burn her fingertips
On the hot griddle
As she makes the tortillas
To sustain her grandchildren,
Who watch her with love
And with fresh eyes, unclouded
By betrayal,
By the sins of man.
And she serves comida
In the cool shadows
As she looks over the garden wall
At the blood red sun.
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