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Volume 6.1

Esteban Rodríguez

Falfurrias 

Though he’s practiced it the Yes the Sir
           the American citizen he pauses lets
his accent slip lets his forehead sweat lets
           a small smile form on the corner of his lips
as if it alone could disarm suspicion as if the agent
           just as brown as him would no longer see
the otherness in his skin and he’d be waved through
wished the best not thought about again
           But no My father’s told to pull over step out go into
an office while I whose English is shy but fluent
           must sit outside on a bench guess what they’re asking him
if they suspect he forged his documents
           if they think he’s not who he says he is And I know he
no longer is when he comes out tells me
           without a word to get into the car and drives us off
half embarrassed half relieved and sure
           that when he crosses the checkpoint again he’ll be
whoever they expect him to be

East Juárez High 

And still the words don’t come don’t cross
             the borders of your mouth don’t sound
how your maestra says they should sound
             too low too soft too white to claim
these strange conjugations as your own even though
             you know that if born half a century ago
you’d have been raised with the right pitch and tone
             that you wouldn’t as you do now feel
you’re someone else an imposter pretender a student
             who despite attempts to memorize phrases
like a script can’t speak enough Spanish just like
             his mother couldn’t speak enough English
couldn’t answer the questions from Ms Smith
             And even when she responded gave the right date
name a hard concept and explanation the accent
             was too harsh Mexican too foreign to sound
correct and she was scoffed at berated sent to the office
             belittled enough to confess this to me and for me
to invent her punishment believe that after sitting
             through the principal’s lecture she was told to bear
her tongue lips and with a pen was shown the ways
             language can be carved on flesh

Estaban R

Esteban Rodríguez is the author of Dusk & Dust (Hub City Press, 2019) and the micro-chapbook Soledad (Ghost City Press, 2019). His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Gettysburg Review, New England Review, Shenandoah, The Rumpus and elsewhere. He lives with his family and teaches in Austin, Texas.

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