I have a Mexican name. First and last.
Seˈlena Toʊˈmɑs. Not Səˈlinə ˈTɑməs,
which arguably fits better. My name
bears a nation I do not own.

I have a Mexican name. But not my
middle name. Roˈsàte, the red rose I
hold close to my crimson organ,
hoping my blood stains its stem.

I have a white stag for a mother.
She granted me the unruly halo 
of frizz I don each day. It once bore 
feathers and beads.

I have a white stag for a mother.
She does not understand the loss 
of stories that comes with cutting 
my thick hair.

My eyes take the color and shape of 
almonds, but they cannot see through
their hoods.

My bulbous nose houses my
horizontal nostrils— they can fit
fish eggs.

Sugarcane. 
Sugarcane.
Sugarcane. 
Sweet.

I only pray that Curicaveri reaches me
before he does.

Love is the dent in my skull. My father’s
affections, shattered alongside the glass
cup.

Love is fingertips searing red. Pulling
apart at the threads of the cross stitch,
friction.

Once Purépecha, now Tarascan. 

May I be buried with those who failed 
to prevent the death of my Indigenous
tongue.