Bruja

I was bestowed "bruja" as a snippish nickname,

By a man that I knew once as a part of a game.

A term of endearment, yes, nothing more

Than something to call as I walk out the door.

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Bruja, a witch, in the tongue of my mother,

A title bestowed unto me, and no other.

For my lightning-fast wit and my laugh like a crone,

For my penchant of walking through life all alone.

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For the knife that I chronically keep at my hip,

For the vengeance I swear when pranks make my heart skip.

For my love of all the fantastic and whimsy,

For the fire when my hold on my anger grows flimsy.

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I accepted the name with a cackle and wink,

And, until today, I did not stop to think.

The realization made my belly turn hollow,

And my lunch was suddenly much harder to swallow.

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A witch, I’ve been branded, with humor so wry,

How many women thus branded before me have died?

A death sentence given and sealed with a laugh,

In history, that word tolls the end of my path.

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How many of my mothers cried out then in fear,

Knowing that I would be dead if not here?

In the time and the place that I have been born,

Where an accusation of “witch” is not met with scorn?

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My mothers, who healed with the natural arts.

My mothers, hands folded, crosses over their hearts.

Their legacy lives through my faith and my passion,

Their fear wells inside me as my smile turns ashen.

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A bruja, a witch, a woman sent from below,

A now-toothless threat from a world long ago.

But the women before me weep deep in my bones,

And I think of the pyres, and nooses, and stones.

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They died as healers, as midwives, as leaders,

As mothers, as sisters, as teachers and readers.

And if I take up their banner? And I lift my voice?

If that makes me a bruja, then that is my choice.

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I am a bruja, with humor and fire,

I am a bruja, with my soul I aspire,

To be a leader, a healer, a nurse caring for others,

I am a woman, and my life carries the dreams of my mothers.