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You are the product of your mother, the product of her mother, your mother's mother. Born from solitude, born from solidarity, born from you, I too wear the badge of a biological sorority, the apparently benign birthmark of loneliness our foolish men kiss as if birthmarks can be washed from the skin. Loneliness: a self-destructive selflessness that reduces women to their resentful husks. Skin, cinnamon-brown like plantains tortured into syrupy submission. Muscles that carry grief like groceries: inevitably. Our men are foolish for ignoring the genetics of our future - our history. Ignoring the generations of mourning for melancholy mothers, generations of clutching the ground with tired talons for fear that our hearts will someday fly away without us. And we contemplated the meaning of painted fish scales pinned to our hair, as if carrying an ocean's vast bewilderment in every strand. A memory is a mirror is a crystal ball, is you, is me praying that San Antonio will find the means to our evolution.