The Browning

Elisa A. Garza

October 29, 2023

Not just this drought, 

dry grass spears crisping 

under relentless sun. 

Or the dark cows lying in dust 

chewing tough stems

and brittle mesquite pods.

Texas has always been brown,

rivers khaki with silt 

melting to marshes, 

seeping to waves 

that slap seaweed onto shores.

In fall, magnolia leaves flip 

from green overnight, float down 

to join the cinnamon pine needles, 

and hide the precious pecans

that will keep the squirrels fed 

through winter. Beavers build 

their wooden dams, bears hibernate 

in the quiet thicket while the deer 

walk regally and hunters wear 

the forest. They seek relaxation 

in the wait, a set of antlers

to display, meat for their tables,

but no longer cure leather

to wear, to make saddles 

or shoes. Texas is brown,

like the faces of my people,

the Alazapas and Lipan Apache,

los Carrizos and Coahuiltecans,

the hacienda dons, vaqueros,

seamstresses, shopkeepers,

and migrant cotton pickers. 

Our children are brown,

a café-colored past,

a bronzing future, inevitable,

bountiful, breathtaking.

Elisa A. Garza has published two chapbooks, Between the Light / entre la claridad (Mouthfeel Press) and Familia.  Individual poems currently appear in Huizache and Last Stanza Poetry Journal.  She has taught for public schools, universities, and community programs and now works as a freelance editor.