we walk to la iglesia to the beat of heat waves
that amá tries to ward off with her black sombria
hovering over her head. she notices me wiping
sweat off my forehead. “take this so you won’t
get prieta like me,” she advises, handing me
the umbrella. i shake my head.
“there’s nothing wrong with that.”
we go to the church sin hablar, and as
the black nube lingers above her head, i think
about much easier it is for me to say that
being prieta is beautiful.