We help our mothers
Sunday after Sunday
What has replaced the pews and black light of Church
is now the iridescent chicken fat shared by all markets in all the world
We mark our slots, pay the owner Bubba, unload the vans
We wear gloves, even in the summer, because even in the summer
our mornings are pierced with cold
We sell second-hand toasters,
naked Barbie dolls, lavender glittery belts
We speak what you speak
The Corningware plates we sell ‘for good price’ can hold
sushi, paella, catfish, latkes
For the manicure kit, the teenage girls all ask ‘How much?’
We are trained as audio mirrors: ‘how much?’
An upturned high heel surfaces in a pile of baby clothes
A sweater, bald at the elbows, Ralph Lauren
Sunday after Sunday
We help our mothers
We play in the parking lot by the chain-linked fence
next to the Day’s Inn
We push our noses inside the metal diamonds and smell
the rich kids splashing in the buttery chlorine of the pool
We look back
We look forward to pupusas in Chelsea
but only if the teenage girl
comes back for the manicure kit
