Things I Learned While Working At The Deli (As In Illegal Immigrant) & Our Bedroom Mementos
by Pilar García Guzmán
University of the Incarnate Word
Pilar García Guzmán is a writer and occasional poet from Santiago, Dominican Republic. She has a Bachelor of Arts in English with minors in Creative Writing and Finance from University of the Incarnate Word. She is currently working on her first novel and aspires to be a book editor at a publishing house. This upcoming Fall semester, Pilar will begin a new journey at Florida Atlantic University to pursue a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing.
things I learned while working at the deli (as in illegal immigrant)
I.
wear light clothes that’ll shield you from the heat
and the stains of strangers’ spit
as they yell out
their orders, just to change their minds halfway
as you take a deep breath. allow the burning
in your chest to be quelled
by the police officers’ flicker of a smile,
their misleading niceties when they order next,
and the chirp of their radios
as they cycle around the names of your friends
ramirez. cruz. hernandez.
those that share a grim fate.
II.
throw away the food
at the end of the day.
let your hands tremor
with the weight of trash
bags full of life,
as your will wavers, like those tarp ceilings back home with every drop
of rain. take it all to the dumpster
and make another prayer
carried by the wind to the rats of the alley.
let yourself believe and hold back the urge
to give it all to those like you.
people that should not be here.
those that should not exist.
III.
count your cash carefully
on the floor of your room, and tuck it away.
hide the bills on your dress socks,
the ones you rarely wear
because you never go out anyway.
deposit sporadically,
different days of the week.
a thousand. five hundred. two thousand and forty-three.
thrive in inconsistency, alter the timeline.
don’t give them a pattern to trace back
to you,
what you’re up to.
to the ghost you have become,
to the name that does not belong.
Our Bedroom Mementos
Does she hit your ego, still,
like she would when we were kids?
Bruises that marred the folds
of your spirit, and seared wounds
in your heart that oozed
your dream-filled blood
onto the hardwood floor.
I’ll take the pain from you
as you take me
to the fossils in the corner
of your room, that never decay. Show me
the crumpled pages of your forgotten,
penciled histories. I’ll compose
a melody with them and the tear stains
on your bed frame.
I’ll scrub them away until they chip my nails.
Cherish the light of the sunset
filtering in through the windowsill
where you’ll keep all the trinkets and notes
I’ll give you, as I slowly fill up your life
with every piece of me I can spare.
I’ll help make you whole again.
Sooth the scathing rash
from your soul-thread that seams me
together, a tangled vine
that binds me to you. Though the possibility,
most probable and platonically immediate,
of unraveling, holds me back.
That, in fact, your heart beats and swings just fine
without mine, as it has done so all this time.
So I’ll keep these mementos
in the back of my mind, so that I never forget
the life we might’ve had.