There is something in this native land business
and you cannot get away from it.
—Gertrude Stein

I sit in the living room,
in the living room
my mother chokes
on something cold and sharp.
I launch an investigation:
She is wearing a blue cotton shirt.
Her shoulders are showing.
The television is hush.
I conclude she is struggling
with a unique idea.
One she should keep.
Just like that, sparks. Reds,
whites. It is the savior
mother calls U.S.!
U.S. places
his arms around her abdomen
and applies sudden upward
pressure. She heaves.
The volume
of the not–news channel
rises, and the sound alerts
my father in the kitchen.
To enter the living room,
my father must
step over the bodies of
other Spanish-speaking men.
He does so with ease.
I weep in the living room,
in the living room
my father watches U.S.
grope my mother,
and though he is a jealous man,
he says nothing
because he, too,
accepts no other touch.