I heard the nurses’ laughter. I could see them rub the hems / Of their skirts into their bottle-cap glasses while translating / My new parents’ imagination. 

yo se perder, yo se perder / black as a young moon, I / am spoken to in English, / the third tongue, / final conquest, never mistaken / for indigenous, never pain, / never daughter of woman / who hums mariachi songs / in crowded restaurants, / skimming lyrics in favor / of memory; / 

Picture your grandmother holding her purse to her side with both hands. On a street full / of traffic, horns.  Beggars and bottles on the sidewalk.  She tells you not to stop at the coo / of each pigeon. That you’re going to miss the bus. 

Picture the dog again shifting between cars and buses, dodging. That dog. Remember?  / The one that was chasing pigeons, butterflies, lizards, cars?  The one with the spot on its / nose.  The one without a collar, wandering the streets. That one. It’s still hungry.