TO LOVE A LATINA
by Michelle Ibarra

A while ago I was at the bookstore
Browsing the shelves for histories and biographies
Running my fingertips along the spines
Currents running over covers,
Until suddenly they stop short . . .
 
Last year in 2016, a guy named Joe was able to publish a book called
“chica spotting: a ‘field guide’ to the different species of Latinas in the US”
To help men find
“the right Latina to marry using user-friendly trait charts and promiscuity ratings.”
 
To make matters worse,
This is then followed by a list of bad pickup lines to use on Latinas using broken Spanish.
It seems like our native tongue is too “spicy” for their tastebuds
If the Spanish language is chile setting fire to their gums
Our lips are ghost peppers, marinated with la lengua de nuestros antepasados.
 
I have written my own guide . . .
 
To love a Latina
Is to bite into ghost pepper lips
And wash her words down with milk.
It is not spitting chewed up dialect into the kitchen sink
Expecting her to clean up after you, and apologize for her spice.
 
To love a Latina,
Is to love her hips
And trust that they don’t lie.
It is not asking Shakira to twist her limbs,
Expecting her to break her bones into submission,
Apologizing for how they fit into her sockets.
 
To love a Latina,
Is to love her coffee colored hair,
Color de cafe.
To allow the curls to fall into place like sun rays through stained glass,
A cathedral of soft distorted light.
It is not forcing her to straighten out her kinks
Expecting her to burn out her fire,
Apologizing for coiled flames surrounding la Virgen de Guadalupe.
 
Loving a Latina is loving her eyebrows,
And when the hairs begin to reach out to one another
like the hands of god on chapel ceilings,
You will praise them as a work of art
Worthy of Frida Kahlo’s blessing.
 
And when her eyes crinkle up at the corners when she laughs too loudly
Turning into wrinkles shaped like crescents,
Worthy of the Aztec Moon goddess.
You remind her that the Spanish sun radiates from her eyelids,
A fusion of dusk and dawn.
 
However . . .
The skies in her eyes were not made for you.
You are not her conquistador.
You are solely an invader mining the pores of her skin
Trying to extract gold,
In a desperate attempt to find the road to el dorado.
 
You will never be able to skim the surface.
Your thirst for precious metals and delicate gems will never be quenched
Because Oro vive en en sus venas.
Gold lives in Her veins
Forever embedded in the roots of Latin America soil.
 
To love a Latina is to love how her mestizo spine curves,
Running up and down her body
And don't you dare forget her bones were built from the leftover ruins of abandoned empires.
Forests growing from the cracks,
Leaving hortencias and cempasúchiles in their wake.
 
Loving a Latina means loving the chaos between dusk and dawn,
It is loving the way she paints frescos as love letters to the sky.
Eagle wings spread, ready to take flight . . .
Lista para volar.
 
Loving a Latina is loving the sound of colliding dialects
Being swished around in her mouth.
Spanish rolling off her tongue
Pressing against the corners of her lips.
For she is made of pyramids kissing one another,
Handing each other the remnants of flower wars.
Shrines to dying gods
And beating hearts.
Separated by war and rain
Huitzilopochtli [wee-tsee-loh-pohch-tlee] and Tlaloc.
 
To love a Latina requires sacrifice
…. Maybe even human sacrifice.