LA MIGRA
TATIANA FORERO PUERTA
We had La Migra stitched on our skin so we might not forget to run. Each morning before school Mami pulled the thread on our arms, secured it with a double knot & had us whisper our family password in each other’s ears: morenas morenas morenas in case they came clothed in sheep’s wool; a long-lost uncle forging a connection.
For fire drills we pranced to the little yard with spots of grass but mostly dirt. For earthquake drills we ducked under desks clasping the silver legs through the stomping. For migra drills we pretended to blend into the chain-link fence behind the trailers, our tiny fingers gripping white as pearl shells.
One Tuesday Araceli didn’t make it to school. Neither did Flor or her four brothers. Decades later we still cross ourselves at the sound of sirens and tongue the remnants of our sutures, in wonder of what became of them, captured & beaten, left?
For fire drills we pranced to the little yard with spots of grass but mostly dirt. For earthquake drills we ducked under desks clasping the silver legs through the stomping. For migra drills we pretended to blend into the chain-link fence behind the trailers, our tiny fingers gripping white as pearl shells.
One Tuesday Araceli didn’t make it to school. Neither did Flor or her four brothers. Decades later we still cross ourselves at the sound of sirens and tongue the remnants of our sutures, in wonder of what became of them, captured & beaten, left?
morenas, morenas, morenas
we pray every time we think of the departed, though none of us was ever able to escape the brownness of this skin.
MY FAT AMERICAN DOG LICKS HIS CHOPS
TATIANA FORERO PUERTA
My fat American dog licks his chops under the table
catching the scraps of baby food, the fallen banana.
Even though he’s already eaten, he begs like the man
from the story in my catechism class:
crawling in fire the beggar pleads with God
for a single droplet of water. He was once rich,
my teacher tells me, owned slaves
and several scattered wives.
At my grandmother’s house most things
are orange and remind me of television shows
from before I was born. My aunt, who has had
foot surgery, is wearing matching sun-tinted knee pads
and drags herself across the floor
like one of those toy soldiers scraping a dust-speckled
blanket on the hot asphalt at the flee market.
I overhear a conversation about how
her husband hit her, and for the rest of my life
I will have to remind myself of the reason she resembled
a zombie--foot surgery, foot surgery--
instead of picturing husband beatings
resulting in floor crawling.
In Colombia, I once dropped my retainer outside of a Quimby,
the third-world equivalent of McDonald’s
before they globalized. A stray dog caught a hold of it
darting in like a fighter pilot made of bones.
He destroyed it immediately, mistaking it for meat
he wouldn’t get that day.
In Colombia we all fear the stray dogs
ravenous for scraps. In Colombia women
scour the earth on their elbows and children
learn that God refused a droplet of water to an old miser
who beat a woman (though not because he beat a woman),
and refused to feed the man, who like a stray dog
in Colombia, who like many crawling women in
Colombia, sleep under a piece of cardboard waiting for
scraps or a drink of water.
catching the scraps of baby food, the fallen banana.
Even though he’s already eaten, he begs like the man
from the story in my catechism class:
crawling in fire the beggar pleads with God
for a single droplet of water. He was once rich,
my teacher tells me, owned slaves
and several scattered wives.
At my grandmother’s house most things
are orange and remind me of television shows
from before I was born. My aunt, who has had
foot surgery, is wearing matching sun-tinted knee pads
and drags herself across the floor
like one of those toy soldiers scraping a dust-speckled
blanket on the hot asphalt at the flee market.
I overhear a conversation about how
her husband hit her, and for the rest of my life
I will have to remind myself of the reason she resembled
a zombie--foot surgery, foot surgery--
instead of picturing husband beatings
resulting in floor crawling.
In Colombia, I once dropped my retainer outside of a Quimby,
the third-world equivalent of McDonald’s
before they globalized. A stray dog caught a hold of it
darting in like a fighter pilot made of bones.
He destroyed it immediately, mistaking it for meat
he wouldn’t get that day.
In Colombia we all fear the stray dogs
ravenous for scraps. In Colombia women
scour the earth on their elbows and children
learn that God refused a droplet of water to an old miser
who beat a woman (though not because he beat a woman),
and refused to feed the man, who like a stray dog
in Colombia, who like many crawling women in
Colombia, sleep under a piece of cardboard waiting for
scraps or a drink of water.
TATIANA FORERO PUERTA's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Licking River Review, Connecticut River Review, Moon City Review Anthology, Juked, and other publications. She is a 2017 recipient of the Pushcart Prize, and a nominee for Best of the Net Anthology. Tatiana holds a BA in philosophy and comparative religion from Stanford University and an interdisciplinary MA in philosophy and creative nonfiction from New York University. Tatiana is originally from Bogotá, Colombia. She lives and teaches in NY.
