Angela Lapin: My Mother’s Hands


my mother’s hands

i have my mother’s hands

they are made of freckles

that don’t carry the name

Mexican. but i have my

mother’s hands made of

Spanish and enchiladas

yo soy and i am my parents’

daughter, a piece of broken

destiny. i don’t know if this

means i will die young like

they did, but it means that

even though i am triple air

i am also fire. i am also

burning to light the earth

with my passion like they did.

when they first stared into

each other, i was born. i was

made of a love called


i open each day with a wish

to live up to teeth that ripped

open the skin of the earth

the way they did. i have my

father’s face to exact anger

the way his fists often did

my power is in entering a


although violence feels good.

peace feels better.

i was in the newspaper

when i protested and my mother

said she was proud,

she left a mission behind

and it is my name.

he left a mission behind and

it is my name.

his nose, his eyes, her movement

her laugh, his face, her soul

and their poem, breathing

volcanoes into the world.

they left me to fight.

romeo and juliet and light.





Angela Lapin is a queer Mexican poet working on a memoir about loving in four languages. She works in education and tries to wears shoes as little as possible.



Art by David Alfonso Siqueiros.

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