Piel
Begin with adjectives: brown, bronze,
dark as old leather left out in the sun.
And as you pick a scene and dust
the edges off, focus on the bridge
crossing back, on the begging you still hear
when you and your mother reach the end,
open a door and feel the rush of cool
office air, and wait, as you’ve waited before,
for the line to dwindle, for the officer
to call you up, ask for your papers,
and pause when he takes in your mother’s
skin, then looks at yours, unconvinced
your light complexion makes you
her son. Remember your silence,
remember the questions that sound,
from what little Spanish you understand,
like they’re meant for your mother
to slip, to stutter the wrong birthday,
birthplace, the full name that still gets stuck
on your lips. And when the officer
turns to you, asks in a heavy accent
if this woman is really your mom,
nod and say yes, then grab your mother’s
hand, sure that your touch will be enough
to let you both pass.