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Jewel of Mexico
The scissors are snapping,
slips of brightly colored paper
floating downward.
Mama twirls around to gather the cutouts,
thick hair loose and swinging,
skirts blown up like a teacup.
Papa stands in the corner,
eyes glowing with pride.
He tells me tales of old times.
"Long ago," he whispers in my ear,
"your mama was the jewel of Mexico."
I guess it's different in America,
I guess she's a lot like coal now-
Coal, the color of her wavy locks
before the silver strands settled in.
I guess that's what I am too.
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