Laurie Ann Guerrero

Breakfast Tacos, from the series Seven Days, 2003, by Chuck Ramirez Let me be your last meal. Let me harvest the notes I took from your mother’s watery hands, street vendors in Rome, Ms. Rosie from our taquería, you: in the sun, in the open air, let me give you zucchini and their elusive blossoms — my arms, my hands. Pumpkiny empanadas of my feet, pulpy as a newborn’s. Guisada’d loin of my calf muscle. On a plate white and crisp as the ocean, lemoned eyeballs like two scallops. The red, ripe plum of my mouth. Perhaps with coffee, you’d have the little lobe of my ear sugared as a wedding cookie. The skin of my belly, my best chicharrón, scrambled with the egg of my brain for your breakfast tacos. My lengua like lengua. Mi pescuezo, el mejor hueso. Let me be your last meal: mouthfuls of my never-to-be-digested face, my immovable femur caught in your throat like a fish bone. Let my body be what could never leave your body.

Humanscape 62, 1970, by Melesio Casas Three years before I’d hear the word /beaner/ from the / white boys / who’d spit first in my broccoli, then in my hair, / my mother / dressed me each Wednesday in that / brown / sheath: I was seven. It’d be the only time I’d wear a sash — Miss / America, / she said. Twenty Miss / Americas, we made / kitsch from clothespins, pipe cleaners — our / brown / socks / banded and complicated / with orange tassels just below the / brown / / rosettes / of our knees, little / skulls / knocking together in our elementary / school / cafeteria. How we jumped the day / we heard / voices raising there instead of / at home, / when Tracy’s mom slapped our / troop / leader / and Tracy cried. And Tracy’s / mom was white / and only her / dad was brown / and Tracy was a little / prettier than the rest of us. / At the lunch tables, /white bitch/ stuck to our fingers like glue; /fucking Mexicans/ landed like glitter onto the sashes laid across our / small / hearts. / With Tracy, / we watched / manifest between us / a line, / risen from the tiled floor where / we shared / meals as tears clung to the eye-rims of my seven-year-old / compañeras. / Lorena chewed her nails till blood / bloomed / on her ring finger. Andrea peed quietly / on her brown knee / socks. None of us knew where to hide. This was not / home, / where / we could run / to the / broom / closet or to the / feet / of our big / brothers. /