Little American Daughter

Call me mother, gringuita daughter,
Or does your voice now falter,
With whispers of secret slaughters?
Desaparecido blood is red like mine,
Yet when my dear brother died,
To stop us from waiting in long lines,
For a little milk, it did not qualify
As a death you should quantify-
Always more interested in a suicide,
Than in the blood of the infant
Of my husband so intelligent,
Flowing along a hospital bed-unattended
Because efficiency was suspended!
Does Pinochet’s wife’s gift of ceramic
Mold me into a woman so demonic?
Look at pictures of my husband as a child,
Before the world evolved into a place so wild!
His eyes were just as innocent,
As any not destined to be militant.
They often call him a "fascist".
You would never understand this.
I remember him to be a man so nostalgic,
Until the day he returned from the Antarctic.
My dearest gringuita hypocrite!
You think your people had no part in it?

Author's Note: This is my answer to freehand's challenge to use the voice of someone with a completely different world viewpoint from my own. I can assure you that there is no more differing viewpoint from my own, than this one. I sincerely hope her accusations about my country were untrue.