10/17/2026
Same Clay, Different Jars
Let’s not play dumb, let’s not play the fool,
there are dark faces and light faces, under the same old rule.
We are all made from the same clay,
but not the same basin, not the same jar, no way.
We all want to be served, to be seen,
watching the pale ones enjoy the scene.
To become what they are, we can only pretend, dressing the part until the end.
Goodbye corn, hello Spanish chickpea,
hello wide-brimmed hat, yes sir, politely.
No matter the outfit, no matter the style,
bony Death winks her eyes at you and waits awhile.
She does not measure dark or white,
nor the beauty of a hat in the light.
Only we pretenders know the score,
if you’re a little dark, you’ve heard it before.
Even wrapped in European fashions, we, one and all, fall into the same hole.
So the Catrina comes near, patient and grand, with her chickpea-seller’s style in hand.
Guadalupe Posada danced with the bone;
his Garbancera Catrina was carved in stone.
He died before fame could see her rise,
but he mocked the pretty pretenders’ lies,
the very, very ones who dress to deceive,
who stopped selling corn, the story I believed, for Spanish chickpeas since Porfirio Díaz’s eve.
Death is not seduced by lace or display,
not by wide-brimmed hats or fine array.
Posada died like a true artist should,
leaving his work to the world for good,
and in love with his Catrina, bone and all.
***os We❤️KCK
