We were eating diner
a heartfealt family meal
a red aura asceued throughout
enuced my appeal.

He asked what the meal was called.
I looked and the *** as my mom's voice trailed off,
"Um... meat with sauce"
The deep red chile con nopales
todava existe con todas estas reglas sociales

She softened her toung for colonizer mouths
we were eating our food in her own house
Chile colorado that stained her hands
turned to twisted song that sung a sour dance.

The conversation lasted a few seconds
but to me the thought beckoned
Its call Chile Colorado for it's deep red hue,
like the spilled blood of my ancestors
and I wonder; "What would they do?"

I draw my tortilla through the salsa
pero entre mi corazon algo senti falsa.
Why do we lie by our own words
Its almost like we are
scared to be heard.

The sharp english language hurts like a cut
but my creamy soft spanish rolls of my tounge.
Chile is a Nahuatl word
A representation of a blend of my two cultures

Mestiso, a swirling blend
of my Spanish colonizers
and my Native soul
stuck between two world, a sung song like a oriol

My brown tint skin
like the pews of a church or a sad sung hymn,
they do not hide behind a colonized word
so why should I hide the names of a food
of which with love we feed to you.