My Mexican mother chops up imported limes
and realizes the sharing of their storylines:
Plucked down and shipped up, eyed for exoticism,
ignored for fear of confronting foreign flavor. The rhythm of her chops reminds me that
mariachi melodies would have sung me to sleep
had she stayed put at her padre’s place; but instead, she fled,
and so she was bruised by the red, white, and blue
and mistaken for the night crew of Apartment Number Two.
