i.
if Los Migrantes were just tortillas,
nutritious maize frisbees instead
of hopeful husks of human striving,
then the border would open wide
like the desert sky that waistline bursts
to project countless, constellating star-chains.
if Los Migrantes were just tortillas,
discs of dietary staple instead
of kempt kernels of human struggling,
then every icestapo agent would cheer,
and exchange handcuffs for Cholula,
swap searchlights for cebollitas,
and trade patrol cars for al pastor.
if Los Migrantes were just tortillas,
mass-consumed raza rings instead
of sturdy stalks of human hoping,
then every menacing minuteman
would mission abort, every racist politician
would relent, every xenophobic citizen
would stop caring, and drive-through
taco bell with newfound purpose.
if Los Migrantes were just tortillas,
if the popular, perennial product
of the original corn people
were the People themselves, then
not a single pinche gringo would complain, in hysterical hypocrisy,
about tough jobs being stolen, a few criminals running rampant,
we would not need the presumed haven of sanctuary cities,
or have to hold vigils in front of mammoth detention centers.
what
if we could celebrate the hands,
the grape-gnarled, rake-rashed,
bleach-battered, quite sore hands
that hold tortillas before and after work,
and during,
have been eating them since long before
the first presumptuous norteamericano
ever tried a taco, tlayuda, or tostada?
what
if we could celebrate the mouths,
the chile-crammed, tequila-trammeled,
mole-mingled, quite eager mouths
that eat tortillas for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,
have been eating them since long before
the heirs of james polk
ever devoured a chalupa, chimichanga, or chilaquile?
what
if we could celebrate the feet,
the field-fraught, linoleum-lashed,
scaffold-scarred, quite tired feet
that rest only to eat tortillas on break,
have been eating them since long before
the earliest train of cancun spring breakers
ever enjoyed a fajita, frijolada, or flauta?
if Los Migrantes were just tortillas, if the offspring
of Chac, Kukulcan, and Ixtab
were as casually cherished as their
culinary legacy, then NAFTA would stand
for Need Another Freakin Tortilla Already,
the border wall would finally fall
to scatter its toxic, turdistic rubble
like shards of crushed Tostitos,
and paths to citizenship would be freely invented
for every child, woman, and man
who dreams of embracing
the paining possibilities of el norte.
if Los Migrantes were just tortillas, if the descendants
of Tlaloc, Quetzacoatl, and Tezcatlipoca
were as finely feted as their
agricultural output, then every vulturous coyote would
become irrelevant, every conniving customs official
must find a new career, and any delusional voter
would require a fresh scapegoat.
