Biking Through Mexico in Waco
Pumping.
Pedaling.
Swerving my silent Schwinn between children, dogs, and cats
in a modern Mexican ghetto as mothers scream Spanish
from the porch and fathers inspect cars in the drive,
chicken broth odor hits me hard in the nostrils:
I’m eight, helping my mawmaw cook chicken & dumplins
in her brown single-wide trailer with green shag carpet
and black pleather sofas. My mother glances up from the table
where she cuts chicken; Get out of your mawmaw’s way
before you get hurt! Go play outside where I can see you until lunch is ready.
As Julisa yells at her grandmother to not get the mail alone I recall last week at El Jalapeño—mom ordered mawmaw’s water, warned her against “spicy” salsa,
repeated the waiter’s questions twenty decibels higher.
While leaving mawmaw stepped down stairs. Mom rushed her into the rail.
Let me help you! I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.
My mawmaw held hands and peered down at me through cataracts and skin tags
blurring her vision, mumbling, They think I’m old, don’t they?
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