Smiling Piñata

She pretends this world is upside-down –
The only way she can “smile” naturally.
She wears broken like a wedding dress and
scars like jewelry. Her tongue is a rat
caught in the trap of her false teeth.
She will not give them the satisfaction of
knowing how she really feels. Chooses to
swallow toxic saliva and burn holes in
stomach lining rather than spit in the
faces of those who chip away at her.
That would only give them the excuse they need,
she tells me.

And of course it hurts.

Hurts to be split open like a piñata by
your new country master,
watch your candy dreams
scatter on the floor, and see
white, smooth hands snatch them away

quickly. Hands that know not of hard work;
hands whose fingerprints I find etched
on my bitterness.

I am not strong like her.

Find myself crying words onto pages
and shifting through the murky flood
as if my subconscious God put answers
there for me to find. Pray to one day
pull out my mother’s smile like a
gold nugget; melt and remold it into a cross –
One that I can finally come to wear
and find sacred.