I broke the rule about writing what you know, but between New York, San Diego, and Guate, I think this place could exist.
Border Town
Border Town. El Pueblo Frontera.
A place divided since they built the fence.
My family has lived here our whole history,
On this land, rich, red, and Rio river-fed.
Were we lucky when they decided our Mexican farm
Belonged to the great state of Texas? Been
American ever since.
I came back from college, rode the train,
caught a bus, found a taxi to drop me off at the edge
of town by San Ignacio. Worn wood and peeling paint, but
Stone steps gleaming, washed clean under the Sisters’ care.
Walk past El Mercado, eye tacky tourists from the city,
come to buy cheap huraches, fake silver bangles,
bright factory woven bags.
Cross the plaza, walk towards Tia Juanita’s tiny stall.
Find my cousin behind the counter, get a warm hug
And a seat, a plate of chilaquiles, all crunch and spice,
Two tamales, rice and beans, which I shovel in my mouth.
Close my eyes and savor every bite, lick my fork shiny.
They don’t make food like this up north.
Good chiles can’t grow in the snow.
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