the churches drown them.

gold crosses hang from brown necks
one Lord’s history and one God’s
biased truths fill crusted
mahogany colored books

their hearts shatter—
do their people not remember?

has their country forgotten
their ancestors’ battle cries
as men with pale skin and sharp teeth
rode on four-legged beasts?

their memories of beautiful
traditions and infinite gods erased

their country has forgotten
the men cloaked in coal black robes who
dragged wailing children to angelic churches
and shoved the sweet body of Christ
on pink tongues that begged for mercy

but they remember.
they sit in the mountains,
waiting as the goddess Tala’s
eyes flutter open and
her freckles appear
as burning stars
like candles on a midnight sky

they dance with the wind amidst
emerald greens in cornfields,
feeling Lakapati’s breath warm on their
collarbones as they wish for good harvest
following summer monsoons

the others don’t understand—
their parents dressed them in lace
white dresses with curved edges,
ghosts of the Spanish’s hands imprinted
on pure pious beauty

but the indigenous
remember even when
everyone else doesn’t.

they lie on wooden rafts as the sea hums
a soft lullaby, fingertips sliding
along Aman Sinaya’s cerulean blue waves

they look out to
gods and goddesses
who gave them strength
as they whisper prayers

naaalala namin.
we remember.

Alyssa Sales is a Sophomore in Columbia College who lives in Palo Alto, CA but misses the busy New York City scenery. She is planning on double majoring in Neuroscience and Behavior as well as Creative Writing. Writing is a way for her to process her thoughts, reflect on herself, and memorialize the world around her.