My
ancestors, with stomachs rumbling,
reached an uncertain shore
greeted by a green, gleaming goddess
lighting their way to promises.
They stood amongst the
huddled masses
were stripped of their
names.
Called foreign, detested.
They settled in burrows,
finding comfort
in the remnants of the
Old Country.
The Medicine, Folklore, and Our Lady.
Five generations from them
I pray, I cook, I sing,
I pray, I cook, I sing,
I pray, I cook, I sing,
so my ancestors can live.
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