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Jeremy Rascon Sep 2019
My mom taught me to clean the beans
            seemingly hundreds all on the counter,
            a delicious rain
               as they fall.
Find the "Bad" ones
                              the rocks,
                              the ugly,
I am power,
       I decide,
           just for awhile.
Cleaning beans meant
                   my mom would make
                                   my favorites
   stuffed sopapillas,
the timeless and classic bean and cheese burrito.
The beans take all **** day to cook...
                                      they taught me
Slam dunk crash
Loud sound, a thunder dome
Intense clapping; it's time
Michael Jordan, save us.

Janus, my ****
In my pants oopsies
Micheal Jordan, slams and dunks.
It is not my story to tell:
Languishing dreams in the midst of barbed wire fences,
Fearless laughter,
We add lemon, chile powder and salt to this border.

They carry these stories,
Heavy as a sack filled with indignities,
Weighty, like your grandmother’s advice,
Cumbersome, like this daily mental displacement.

I have not bought big things as of lately,
In my mind I plan my exits,
I constantly check my relocation fund,
“What if” is a constant in my lexicon.

I often break in tears at the sound of an immigrant story,
My emotions become gallons of water:
broken and splashed by the boots of immigration officers,
Little do they know, we are cacti:
Tough and our seeds also flourish post mortem.

I want to sing an immigrant song:
Less like butterflies who migrate,
But more like dislocated nations,
Collateral flesh, caught up in steel thorns.

Rest assured we will survive,
Like leaves of siempreviva,
Even after torn away from our stem,
We will grow our own roots:
Defiant, resilient, and with a stubborn willingness to belong.

We are you.
Your fragile fears are endearing
As they determine you are human.
Your shivering skin is in
Because it shows you are chilled to the bone.
Your voice’s timbre does not have a noise
For it is the sound of your subconscious.
Your hand’s shakes are their own brand
Of starlight, cells, and sweat.
It’s okay
To think
What seems possible
The intangible
Keeps us
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