MEXICO

Mexico,

Trying to remember you

is like playing back film previews

in my head.

All the images blend together

and at the end I can’t separate

which moment goes to each scene.

My heart stores

what my head can’t remember

in order to feel like I know you.

Like we are intimate.

You and I are like a bad relationship,

just because I don’t want to be in you,

doesn’t mean I don’t love you,

that I don’t wonder what we might have been.

Mexico,

You bred me brown, like bitter chocolate.

And just as strong as it’s acquired taste.

Like my lovers, you find it amusing that I can rrrolll my R’s

But can’t hear my accent.

But Mexico — do you even know me?

I left with a trembling “adios”

and for the past 18 years I’ve played

“see you later’s” in my head,

not knowing if I will ever be back

to your plazas and mercado-sticky summers.

I know not what I want to see in you,

only that my head remembers

less than my heart.

And sometimes that makes me bitter,

but mostly it makes me sad.