Gisela Sequeida Lemus

If you go back, you're not coming back

And here we are,
her chinas, her consteñas, her moreno,
in the Filipino Tambuli store.
Here we come
back to Guerrero
behind my mother in a lancha.

Here we pick banana leaves
from besides the ube ice cream,
wait for them to thaw,
check if they have chicken patas.

Fish revive in oil,
the carnicero called us 
paisa when he saw our hair.
He’d know his paisa anywhere.

My mother left her mother
so that she could be my mother
so that I could be her American. 

I think
this is the closest I have been
To your pais
despite my hair,
carnicero:
when I asked for chicken patas,
when you lifted your leg and said here,
and I laughed cuz I felt like your leg 
in the Tambuli store
when you asked for paisa.

Cachucha

For a chest I have, but not like men do
And I recently cut my hair off,
Saw Cachucha at “La Corona”
Buying handmade bread in paper bags,
Moving through the heat of
Not the sun,
Moving closer with her body and
Not the motor
Of her brother’s truck I
Once saw them lean upon like they had a deal.
Both had glasses:
Lenses thick as cuernos (pan).
But that's not why

On this hot day,
Believed Cachucha
was a Lesbain.
I said I found one,
Ignored the fact they
Were cuñadas, (convinced myself that they did first).

I said I found one and I 
Must have
Cornered Cachucha in an isle,
Interrogated her with Spanish:
Why I felt a woman
Felt like me.

I said nothing too direct, of course,
“I was looking at your hat.”

But that's not why
She opened her red lips and spoke,
Said nothing too direct, of course,
Just took it off,
Put it on my head,
And left.

I said I found one
And I must have meant
I found a hat
To fix the sun.