You Spainards. You evil ones
Of the golden tongues and
Miraculas dreamweaving!
Once again a beliving  Malinche
Finds herself with amputated
hands, feet, heart like acoma.

You never have enough, do you?
There are always  the Seven Cities
Of adventure beckoning
For you to plunder, lootrape
Always upon the horizon
Awaiting for your deflowering.

And Malinches like me,
We always surrendor, don't we?
No matter how proud we be
Always we capitulate
In the darkest night
to your cobra persuasion.

This Malinche yet stands
While the joy that had grown
Inside her brozen body
Melts away searing her limbs
With molten streams of shame,
Of humiliation.
 

Someday soon I will be
Old and ugly and wear a wig
and live in a foreign hotel
Eating my meals alone.
And I too will mouth my thoughts,
No one to hear me.

It must be the daiquiri
But they all look like Navajos
And i keep dropping my bread.
I want yo weep for La Vieja
Two booths away,
But  I can't; she is me.

by Shirley Witt Hill