Vanessa Guillen Memorial: HPL

My head with its star-night crown speaks to my hands, my strong legs, my two capable arms. I do not belong to this nightmare of 60 days, wet mud beside a river. The crosshatch of hate and a man’s hands and fury.

I belong to the sound of my black Nikes hitting pavement, my 5’2” and my last bright smile. How I ran headlong and strong. The sound of my little sister, Lupe laughing into my ear in our last phone call. “I can handle it, baby. Don’t worry.”

Now my blood pumps and pounds the sound of your name into ground, throws rocks and bricks and grenades into the hands on my wrist, my neck, until you are dust. Say it to the edge where the road cuts into sky, where men mouth and teeth their bloody tongues and are obliterated by unending evening’s horizon.

Say it to the face of your mother, your grandmothers, all your mother’s mothers. Say my name to all your brothers, your sons, your grandsons. I’ll be remembered for my 5’2” and last bright smile, how I ran to joy headlong and strong.

I wasn’t that everyday Mexican American young woman you think of that doesn’t exist. My name was Vanessa, I ran cross country, track, played soccer. I was a soldier, I wore blue with a straight spine and my face upright.

Say it to my feet, the strong muscles in my God-given legs I’m hanging right before there’s a chance any man or boy can catch up. I’m running as hard as I can to outrun all of y'all, the ones who made me feel small, the ones who would not see me, the knife or hammer or your own bare hands.

I’m running to the place where women can rest, where a woman named Vanessa no longer has to run.

City of Houston Poet Laureate
Leslie Contreras Schwartz