My hair is straight like a broom

it does not curl or bend

pitch black like deep ocean

Abue says I have "Indio hair"

does not listen to law or assimilates 

it does what it wants


my hair has never been called beautiful

its ordinary

there is nothing exceptional about it 

during school pictures mami

would gel, spray,mousse place saliva

just so it could stay in place

even then there was one pelito that did what it wanted 


A book once told me

the first thing missionaries would do to indios

was to cut off their hair

this pitch black straight hair

collected in bundles and set on fire


they did this so we would forget

but my body remembers


I look in a mirror

frustrated at this stubborn hair

wanting it to be something that its not 

wanting it to be something less stubborn


my sight fixates on my eyes

and something inside me tells me to write this poem