Somewhere along Route 5, miles
from Seattle or Portland, where
green crop rows slash
scorched flatlands, hunger
snatched us in the middle
of our American road trip
a year in the making. We three
pressed pause on our unabashed
concert of latinidad as we
pulled up to a burger joint.
We stepped out onto the sizzling
parking lot, our Spanglish banter
blending with the highway whoosh.
I squinted at my rental beside
the pickups, the horizon rippling
without refuge. If María Paula
and Felipe noticed my
distracted gaze, they said nothing.
Under that sun, who could tell a tan
from complexion? In my halfness, I
burned. Stripped of what connected me
to millenia of here. Inside, the air
bloated with the scent of
americana, we waited in a line,
the only customers with black hair.
Les invito, I said. Pidan lo que quieran.
A globe of a man loomed nearby,
his figure swallowing the sunlight
streaming through the exit.
His reddened face, white hair,
and blue eyes with their crown
of sweaty brow creased toward
our conversation. With interest
or something else my own suburban
prejudice flagged, I did not wait to discern.
I turned to Felipe and María Paula
who mirrored my strained smile.
As the fryer gurgled another batch,
we glazed our next words:
fresh, palatable, in English.