In the Diner There is No Need for Translations
The brothers know not to leave the kitchen.
It’s no secret the immigration authorities are
introducing themselves to the hostess,
their shiny badges like a bomb or a kiss of death.
Diner patrons lift their heads from toast and eggs
as the television scrolls the morning headlines.
Immigration raids continue.
A child’s breath fogs a booth’s window.
He kneels on the red plastic booth,
leans forward and traces his name on the glass.
It will stay a while— his name is Jose.
He needs no formal introduction.
The waitress calls him by name, Jose.
Her coffee breath an ugly flavor to inhale.
He won’t tell her this.
He will tell her that she has some grape
jelly on her left cheek.
He orders breakfast…extra maple syrup, please.
He remembers she laughs when he says:
Do you know pancakes like to swim
in maple syrup?
In the kitchen the brothers don’t trust luck.
There are points waiting to be scored by immigration.
Deportation numbers met. Enough points to get a raise?
A breeze as the backdoor opens, escorts the brothers
outside.The secret learned is to fit in, blend into the community.
Don’t be dumb and draw attention. It’s true that luck
can be heads or tails depending on the caller’s side.
They’d kissed their mother’s cheek this morning.
Said goodbye. A goodbye that could be forever.
Te Amo. The last words she packed into their lunch sacks.
