they swept in with the acrid smell of Rosa's burning tamales laced
with five o'clock sweat, trekking in the dust
of pa**ing commuter trains. their forehead sheen are floodlights as they slap
court orders like abuela pummels tortillas,
methodically, splintering the scrap wooden table in time
with mama's fluttering eyelashes.
sausage fingers are squeezed into mason jars
-salsa de tomate, to Caliente mio, to crema-
viscous drops writhing down to paper edges
saturated in sweat of midnight runs
(el policia no esta afuera –
corrate,
corrate,
corrate
de estos gringos malditos)
and you cringe as they lick
from the tips of their fingers to
their open-mouthed smirks.
Erica Lin
Hunter College High School