maybe the torch has been lit
in a dance off in between casitas
with memories slipping down cheeks in drops
in the triple axel spun around hometown pie
 
or the courage to speak a language 
that is both foreign 
& adoptedly home
simultaneously
 
maybe the torch spans subjects
invisible lines
over hollers & under bridges
of resurrection 
of pride
 
it sparks from the oil of generational education 
of worn knuckle skin 
& folded dough patterns of recognition 
 
the flame perhaps grows dim when we lose sight
of the amber, ebony, alabaster, golden grains 
of each fingerprint in this complex
deep crevassed map of us
 
it sometimes burns too bright 
with the drums of doom
or the silence of unnerving acceptance
 
but if we squint, maintain our peace of 
you equals me
we will see it once 
again
 
our flame keeps warm, 
burns true
as my heart knows 
your skin 
my bones
our blood
is here
we will gather round the fire
for
 
our stories must be told.