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

And Malinches like me,
We always surrender, 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 bronzen 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 will hear me.

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

               -Shirley Hill Witt