MEXICAN POEM #226
ISABEL ESTRADA
I'll start with my mother throwing open las ventanas so that
the whole barrio can wake up to her oldies and know it's
Saturday morning— cleaning time--
or with the Spanish saying
she uses to teach me about patience or
God or cooking liver. Or the mezcal my
father cries into at three in the morning,
while listening to Chente with my uncle. Mexican men.
I watched them from as far away as possible.
The big voices, heavy footsteps.
How could I forget any of it?
I'll tell you about immigration,
how I try to quiet the fear by
writing every last poem about the flea markets
we went to.
How the air felt Mexican but
it was also a morning in South Carolina
and my mother bought me my first moralito,
which you call a “tribal bag.”
When I tell you I ordered esquites at
a food stand. I mean the big,
bottom-lid eyeliner woman running it
gave them to me because I looked hungry.
Both hands extended
cradling the styrofoam cup.
How her neon pink
fingernails waved away the money
I offered, how she raised her thinned
eyebrows when she smiled, bringing her hands
together at her belly like I might be in it.
the whole barrio can wake up to her oldies and know it's
Saturday morning— cleaning time--
or with the Spanish saying
she uses to teach me about patience or
God or cooking liver. Or the mezcal my
father cries into at three in the morning,
while listening to Chente with my uncle. Mexican men.
I watched them from as far away as possible.
The big voices, heavy footsteps.
How could I forget any of it?
I'll tell you about immigration,
how I try to quiet the fear by
writing every last poem about the flea markets
we went to.
How the air felt Mexican but
it was also a morning in South Carolina
and my mother bought me my first moralito,
which you call a “tribal bag.”
When I tell you I ordered esquites at
a food stand. I mean the big,
bottom-lid eyeliner woman running it
gave them to me because I looked hungry.
Both hands extended
cradling the styrofoam cup.
How her neon pink
fingernails waved away the money
I offered, how she raised her thinned
eyebrows when she smiled, bringing her hands
together at her belly like I might be in it.
ISABEL ESTRADA was born and raised in Camden, South Carolina. She's a senior at the South Carolina Governor's School for the Arts and Humanities. She enjoys kiwis and late night trips to Waffle House.
