Vanessa Guillen Memorial

Poem "Vanessa" by Leslie Contreras Schwartz, City of Houston Poet Laureate.

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 an or

boy can catch up.

I’m running as hard as I can to outrun all of ya’ll, 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.