Sam Villa

The Smuggler

I’m sneaking in. Again. This time through a conversation with a food-truck cook. Sitting on a milk crate. I pluck out my words carefully. Like cleaning the thorns off a nopal. Without a knife. He had only asked if I was a student. Estudias aquí? But I’ve convinced myself. Mande? That I always need the first sentence repeated twice. 

Small. I dip tostadas in a cup of water. Say it tastes good. Say I don’t like. Corn tortillas until I’m out of high school. But now. They taste like laughter in a smoky backyard. The ones where I’ve never seen the grill cold and the pepinos. Grow wet. 

Can’t count the times I wished. My parents were farmers. I’d be. Their plotted land. Keep the maíz tall. And sprout out songs their abuelas sang. For the whole neighborhood to hear. Whenever God cries onto my soil. 

But half of their dreams are. Dying in me. And I’m left as a smuggler. Bringing in winter’s crops. Hoping they feel warm in the palm. Sound natural. Dance until the guitar falls asleep. Or taste hecho de mano. Enough to keep me outside the window. Of their flower-filled house I call home.