There was a time when the mothers

smiled, rolled up their sleeves, wore 

calloused hands like prized gloves, molded

countless mounds of tortilla dough into perfect circles;

At night: turned up radio dials full blast, swayed 

hips with no tomorrow as they held children’s hands,

chugged tequila shot after shot to the voices that crooned bachata at

gatherings too large for their homes but not nearly enough for their hearts,

yelled tales of a long-lost nation in native tongue.

And then their narratives were forgotten.

There was a time when the fathers, raised 

their Coronas and hearts to the sky, crooned

hallelujah and horses to ride, while his own children sat around

the table, the one the mothers had set up, with the green dollar store

cover at the gatherings perhaps too grand for his wallet

but never for his hands, the ones covered 

with motor oil from working day-in-tonight at the auto body.

In the morning: he will grind again, exchange beer bottles for bearings. Now, 

there is only sip and sit back while recounting motorcycle races from en

el rancho when he was just a boy.  

  And then their work was stolen. 

There was a time when the brothers, set 

the table with their mothers, kicked back a beer with the fathers,

entertained his cousins with stories of soccer, sneak-outs, and 

seduction, the mother giving him a playful slap on the head upon hearing

and politely took his aunt’s hand, danced bachata but did not croon. 

In the evening: he will turn away from the party, recount the days of boyish blissful ignorance, 

Before you were but a concept, of Benadryl taken to put a young-mouth to rest in the car of a 

Coyoté across the southern border.

And this country became his life sentence.

Now is the time where you sit in the back of this fiesta, 

try to converse with cousins from mamí’s native land— visitors for the summer,

but you know no other nation and only one other tongue, even then— you stumble.

Amongst the noise you hear the music, the message:

Canta y no llores, the croon you’ve heard every Christmas, celebration to count back joy and extinguish sorrow— 

Sing and don’t cry. 

For you are not part of then.

You tell mamí’s story tonight, you sing and do not cry, take the hand of a young cousin— sway hips to no tomorrow.

You work for papí tonight— live out his stories of youth though you cannot be a boy on en el rancho—

You live for tu hermano tonight— let a life sentence become your home.

You sing without a tear.