In Humboldt Park

Most mornings we’d wake up and stumble down the street to that taqueria on the corner, the one where they cooked the food in front of you and said prayers over it before they gave it to you and you ate it feeilng a little guilty, eating this blessed food that they made with their own blessed hands and thinking of the things your mouth did the night before. Bad, bad mouth! You’ve smoked cigarettes out of it, gargled cocaine, ended a marriage or more. You ate their food and they watched you, and you saw their dark eyes and thought racist things about them for judging you, even if– especially if, your parents’ eyes were similar.

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