For Chola who thought I grew up privalged. 

she said she was from cement 

and that I was from the trees

that I wasn’t like her

called me elite, entitled, proud, ignorant to the struggle 

that i needed to learn respect and didn’t know how hard it all was

this was a mistake.

she had heard my songs and laughter from the Mesa 

took notice of my small gourds filled with chaparral, piñon and juniper

said my view of the world was different 

thought me too sheltered, too precious

failed to see my one way ticket out of hell

my seasons of exile and crawling

where i ate Fels Naptha soap for lunch

and a backhand for dinner

season of the gun

a time to collect keloids and cancer 

where you will have to get on your hands and knees To get this right

wear an armor of pull tabs and sip jello through a wired jaw

loose faith in jesus while eating your Cheerios in a bowl of water

i won’t go back 

and i say with my mouth you are eight years old at 60

i say outright -you haven’t worked on your shit

and you’re right 

i am not like you