House of Obsidian

Camaray Davalos

I.

We were forced to kneel before a cross

of rusted nails and painted blood.

And they made us pray for our health

so that we could birth less Heathens 

and more Catholics.

But before they crossed the oceans

We were autonomous.

 ‘áataxum consciousness

And our ancestors were making potions

of plants,

of power,

of purpose.

We could cultivate life

or not,

knowing that the first breath is the threshold

between 

Life and Death.

I have to remind you that it was

white men in black robes who tried to claim the land

like it was my body

and my body like it was the land.

Maybe because we are both

rolling, resolute, rhythmic. Rebellious.

And it is white men in black suits who 

say my choice is a sin

because subordination

 is their sharpest blade.

I’ve learned to dull it with my teeth.

III.

In our legacy of apothecaries,

Wisdom has been muted.

The intimacy formed with root relatives,

Muted.

The peace we allowed ourselves to have,

knowing our bodies are in our hands,

Muted. 

But.

I still allow myself to walk through liminal spaces,

to befriend ancient knowledge.

Not because I was given permission

but because my being requires it.

IV.

The freedom to choose exists in ourselves,

not in books penned by men,

or the jealousness of gods.

That is why settler philosophies fall around me

like defective shells.

The antithesis of our obsidian-charged bodies;

Corroded, obsolete.

They do not work on us

because I am the master of this house

made of memories and stars from where we began.

And I love to disrupt unwanted guests’ plans.