If Heaven was a Mora Tree

El Pueblo, El Pueblo, Mi Pueblo en el cielo 

I love you I love you I love you 

The wetness, the heat 

The red flag disguised as a one way street 

Great grandpa who carried his baritone like an uprooted tree

A gold chain bridging his neck like the creek the cowboys used to cross 

On CNN, drunk and white 

Every umbrella they’d ever owned as broken 

As Mami Juana asking for a fuck insead of a fork 

In the same way your bed became ours 

When people ask me where I’m from 

my lips trip between Guanajuato or Guadalajara when the answer is Dallas 

Delivering my nice-to-meet-you-handshakes in the shape of an sloppy sloppy kiss

I keep my social security card next to my recipes

To remind myself that my brother couldn't pronounce our last name until the fifth grade 

But grew out of throwing up into his lap by the ninth 

Last week someone asked me for the definition of expediency 

I told them to trade in their rear view mirror for a pool noodle on their bumper

They told me my whispers sound like a world 

Described my handwriting as little brown letters tangled in half straightened curls

In this universe I exchange my most mature hickey for my youngest bruise 

And spell my name with extra letters just in case I change my mind 

Published in Sprung Formal, Issue 17, 2022