Photo by Jairaj Swann on Unsplash
The plates were sticky with maple and green from habanero; two condiments cohabitating, breeding something better only our tongues would know. As I cleaned up after the breakfast I made you, you told me you had another lover. He was coming to Mexico City, the place where I thought we were falling in love. It was Christmas. I’d rented a car to take you to Guerrero. We drove in silence, listening to a Mexican punk band whose despise for the US made me wonder why they sing in English. It’s their truth, I guess, and they need us to hear it.
J McCartin is a full-time educator and part-time writer & poet based in Oakland, California. She has an MFA in creative writing from UC Riverside’s Low Res program in Palm Desert.
