When papá tells me
Mexicanos have origins in Tibet,
his smile an exclamation,

it’s hard to argue with him,
gazing at his tan skin stretched taut
over Himalayan cheekbones.

Ice-age girl from Yucatán
rises from a cave lake
to tell a similar tale.

Papá’s laughter vibrates the room,
resonates in the singing bowl
of my body.

His usual way
of beginning and ending
an argument.

Santa Anas blow chili powder
breath on prayer flags in my garden,
ignite sutras.

Sky sisters,
Guadalupe and Tara,
cast a green glow on my altar.

We have origins in Tibet,
papá’s smile insists.

Maybe, I say,
as I look into the mirror
of his face.

Our resemblance provokes me
to a burst of laughter: ice crystals
melting.