kitchen poem #1

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to those whose name or place
of origin is known by no one
to those whose bullet-ridden blood
polluted deserts and kitchens

to those who never heard bells
or trumpets celebrating their arrival
to those women who suffocated
inhaling tears and toilet stench

to those who—like me—were
born to clean/ to work/ to wash
to sell their sweat at two dollars

a gallon/ to mi gente/ the most
untouchable of people/ here is
a kiss/ an embrace in my poems