He think I'm going to trace the veins in my legs that tears don't do it for me any more Sometimes the vastness between feels like the first encounter Blue eyes like the open seas "That is where I come from" I said. "That is my home." The words cut sharply into the lamp-lit room, but like glass, they do not hold up well against gravity. I look at my face, daily, my ritual my canteloupe shaped cheekbones coffee stained eyes dull-brown skin mole-skin hair What is contained in this body, this face? I perceive myself as a symbol as the colonizer taught us Nose - blanca Hair - indio and on and on - always one or the other always self-conscious truth-lies Reified only in the ritual. It doesn't matter. So I make lists, count weeks and outline steps - match my orbit to the moon's As palms come together to make the maza - I contain my ancestors and destiny into a single rondelle softly and tenderly I will become my actions.