Blue Eyed Demons

I never want to see another man
with blue eyes.
Though, sadly, it’s always been my type.
Jumping on my aunt’s trampoline,
I’ve always been a big kid at heart—
forever stuck in that place where I can’t escape
the men with ocean eyes
who make me,
and the women in my bloodline,
weep.
 
It started with a soldier—
a Spanish man invading Mexico,
a tale that has twisted through my veins,
generation after generation.
Was he just doing his duty,
or did he delight in the carnage he left behind?
Did he see my grandmother’s pain
and savor it like a feast?
She could have killed him,
taken his life and disappeared
into the land she knew.
But instead,
she stayed,
weeping as her family was sold,
shipped to the Caribbean like livestock.
 
The Hustec's survived the  Aztec's & Mayans,
but they couldn’t stand
against those blue-eyed demons.
The ocean-eyed soldiers who came
and left their mark,
and it stayed—
a stain on my bloodline,
a mark I carry.
 
My son was born with brown eyes.
His father’s blue never made it to him,
and I thank God every single day for that.
How could she care for him in his weakest moment?
They say he loved her,
but I think it was because she didn’t break,
because she didn’t savage him when she could have and that chilled him to the bone.
 
I was asked if I would go to Spain
to trace my great grandfather’s lineage.
I said no,
"If I want to meet cacodemons,
I’ll visit the local bar in Texas."
Now, I stand here,
several generations later,
and I swear,
I will never fall for another
blue-eyed man.
 
NP