My grandmother heals with a firm hand.
The wrinkles on her index fingers
can tell stories of dried up ruda and clavos
on the center of a young boy’s head
because el mal de ojo has put him in danger.

Me cuenta de los días que pasaba con su padre
mirándolo mover sus manos con confianza.
En silencio su padre curaba.

With calloused hands
softened by yerba buena,
she delivers gentle touches
with firmness and belief
that the sick can be cured
and the broken remedied.

She says my hands can do the same,
but how do I heal a reality so broken?
How can my hands stop the tears of
mothers, daughters, sisters
who have lost sons, fathers, brothers?

I cannot heal this evil eye that has set its sight
on the black and brown boys we know as familia
but the world only sees as a threat.

Quisiera tomar el dolor y las heridas entre mis manos
Y curarlas dejando solo cicatrices como recuerdos
De la lucha de un pueblo resistente
Porque mi gente merece sentirse entero.

by Karen Garcia