I write in lineage of bloodlet, inherited a chest ripe for carving, 
                                             my beating heart worth more outside me, palm up to the sun
                                                           so my valves may drink light in. Better to seep, an honor to rupture 
                                              in the name of another. Having survived and been a product of 
                               too many survivals, I would give a hundred hearts to the rhythm
                                                            of chachayotes before imbuing my lineage with silence. Eat my heart,
                                            I dare you. Grip the story of me so tightly the pulse becomes 
                               you. Te doy permiso sagrado. Have the drumbeat spill down your chin, 
                                  mix with the dirt, make sanguineous clay. May my words be obsidian. Be knife, be
                               arrowhead, be body ornament, be mirror, be looking glass. My limbs have clambered
                                                            hundreds of stairs in this tradition. I am this pyramid. 
                                           This temple. What have you forfeited to enter?

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