Taqueria Papa

with its laminated pictures

of platas and pop cans

on a tamarind countertop

and its steel-frame kitchen window

and the radio that echoes with gritos

and the cook in his apron who whistles along

as he chops my cheeks and tongue

into pieces

and how embarrassed i am

because the woman in a black dress

sits across from me

and laughs

and i don’t understand

so i sip my spiced milk

and she her black beer

and i stare at the glass rifle of anejo

above the steel-framed kitchen window

because when her father drinks

he glares

because i can’t roll my r’s

because i won’t grow a mustache

because i don’t laugh from my belly

because i sleep in

because of my circumcision

because i don’t mind being used

And all of this

i can accept

because her mother is sweet on me

and her mother’s girlfriend is too

because i don’t say a thing

about their business

making miniatures in an avenue garage

behind the Pepsi plant

where kids break bottles after school

and one paints ‘TIM’ in big red letters

and raccoons connive their way

into syrup-sticky dumpsters

and men and women who speak with ényes

suck white smoke and snuff embers

beneath their shoes and my fingers

curl through the links of cyclone fence

surrounding hip-high grass

and i dig them into the corners of every diamond

lean back and sink

my heels in the almost-Ojai earth

and watch clouds pass over a cliff

that will fail again in the next rain

and bury another twelve alive

and nothing will change

and the mexican radio dj laughs

and the cook throws back his head

and bellows órale

because his wife sleeps with another woman

because they don’t speak

because his daughter’s favorite dress is black

with spaghetti straps

because she kisses boys

and girls

because he shreds her breast to ribbons

because she is a passing cloud

because every night before bed he pulls out his teeth

and puts them in a glass

because amber grease fills the space beneath his fingernails

because he flours the countertop before every sunrise

and he grinds the tortillas with his fists

and he traces the nicks his knuckles leave

and presses them clean with his palms

because when she eats here

it’s with her back to the the window frame

because this man looks through her as he drinks

from the barrel of a gun