And so we meet again,
bound by blood and faded memories.
Beneath her sandy veil,
she calls herself Perú.

Land of the golden Inca,
princess of the Amazon,
protector of Machu Picchu,
she rises in dresses of rojo-blanco-rojo.

She stares into my soul
with warm, foggy eyes
and kisses my cheek
as if time had not gone by.

She pulls me out to dance
and swings her hips
to the beat of tambor tides
and the chirps of panpipe birds.

She serves me
mountains of zesty ceviche,
rivers of purple corn juice,
and won't take “no” for an answer.

She prays for me every night,
her hands clenched like magnets,
filling her heart with light
and guiding the stars of my dreams.

But when the motherlands sings,
she can only hit the saddest notes
and sorrow strikes her
like a black lightning bolt.

When the motherland sings,
she remembers
that killing and stealing
are as common as cats and dogs.

When the motherlands sings,
she cries for the poor
who beg for soles
in the shadows of indifference.

When the motherland sings,
she curses at corruption,
while picking up the pieces
of broken promises.

When the motherland sings,
she screams for the women
whose bruises remind her
that they've had to say "¡para!"
too many times.

When the motherland sings,
she falls to her knees,
and asks me - quietly -
"Why did you leave?"

I tell her that it wasn't my choice.
I tell her that I wanted to be with her.
And I tell her that I loved her
the moment I saw her.

So she stands up,
melts in my arms,
and we
eat,
dance,
and pray
once again.