Foreigner in my own country

I am an eagle soaring
in a lavender sky
as the sun sets in the horizon

I am a wild plant growing in the woods
(until I'm killed by pesticides)

I am a wisp of smoke
drifting in the wind,
produced by a murder weapon-
or is it a suicide tool?

My olive skin is hard to look past,
I am a Mexican if you so please

Yes, my green eyes are a fluke of nature,
if that is what you want to hear

No, of course my people did not have
genocide attempted against them

Yes, of course Christopher Columbus was a kind, kind soul,
of course I celebrate Thanksgiving,
eat turkey, and drink some whiskey
following dinner up with some unprotected sex,
some contracting of Smallpox,
and a Marlboro Light or twelve

With the mixing of red and tan blood
inside of me, it's strange how my cultures
do not mix so easily

Apparently biology is easier than sociology
(but don't tell that to the pre-med kids,
over there with their 20 pound books
and their 100 percents coming out their mouths)

I am a woman singing to the wind,
my voice resonating in the concaves
of the rolling hills of this city-
the pitches bouncing off of buildings
high rises sending my music back to my own ears

I am a child on a beach
frolicking in the sand,
until the waves come and take me away

So far away,
that I am a lost American
with no sense of direction,
no knowledge of geography

And when the Natives of the land find me,
confused by my soaked clothing
and the scared look in my eyes

I look at them puzzled
to find people in another place
more similar to me
than the people in my own country