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  • Home
  • About
    • About Us
    • Contributors
    • Support Us
  • Submit
  • Current Issue
  • Archive
    • Volume I >
      • Issue I
      • Issue II
      • Issue III
      • Issue IV
    • Volume II >
      • Issue I
      • Issue II
      • Issue III
      • Issue IV
    • Volume III >
      • Issue I
      • Issue II
      • Issue III
      • Issue IV
    • Volume IV >
      • Issue I
      • Issue II
      • Issue III
      • Issue IV
    • Volume V >
      • Issue I
      • Issue II
      • Issue III
      • Issue IV
    • Volume VI >
      • Issue I
      • Issue II

Machu Picchu

by Jay Belandres-Mendoza
Step by step, walking up to
the summit of the mountain
to the place I have been told
used to be our home—but

I am afraid of the sky. I fear
the face of those who bore
the sun—heat on my neck.
Who am I to call it mine? It

once was. I used to lay my
body down, melting into the
cracks between the stone. But
there was nothing to catch me. I

once ran to the blue before
I turned my eyes to dirt.
Now these steps are
imprinted on my mind. If

I walk—a string tying head to
stomach—it would never burn.
It would never hurt. Few times,
light barged into shade. Am

I made from dust or stone?
Is my tongue made for
where I was born, or
where I am from? So

much I can learn from
the burn and ache. I know
I must look to the sun, I was
told I am the child it—a

baby born in rays, gilded in
my veins. Now gold weighs me
down and to lift my head requires
my blood more than my neck.
​
It did not hurt. I do not cry,
but I knew it wasn’t right.
Stairs of death disfigure the
words I wanted to say.

Jay Belandres-Mendoza is a queer, first-generation Latina-American writer from southwest Florida. She currently attends the University of North Florida getting her bachelor’s degree in English with a concentration in creative writing. She mainly writes poetry with the exception of the occasional fiction piece and has been a reader for the Talon Review.