El Mercado

El Mercado

Every weekend,

The little girl growing up in a one story house, 

Would accompany her parents along a busy street 

Filled with vendors and stalls of old ancient treasures waiting to be bought


From knitted scarves to painted skulls—

Everything was tossed out 

Waiting so desperately to belong,


Like the threads that bind our roots,

With the colors that coil through our heads,

Rich vibrant red was smeared across my thoughts


Our family traditions stick to the side of our teeth—

Holding us together like glue that never leaks


From embroidered shirts,

To red ruffled dresses,

It was filled with their culture to the very brim 


Selling it was like giving up on a dream—

Having to close a book of untold stories waiting to be read,


Layers and layers of history embedded throughout its spine—

Desperately trying to fit in,

Somewhere along the lines


United States of America