Tell them

Tell them, in your serpentine, honey-drenched, Southern slur. Tell them, how you love. How you marinate with Adobo. Goya is our best friend. I mean you season from the motherland, the coconut shine of your skin, the liquor of your scent.

Tell them, in your twang, in your walk.

Tell them, how you’re a child of revolution. Tell them, how you exist.

Tell them, because I’m confused.

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