in midwestern diners, they order horchata, frijoles, y arroz
and squeeze their watermelon hips on red, plastic stools
while waiters savor their flavorful accents
dripping of rumored mojitos, tequila, y piña colada.
onlookers whisper, they’re spanish girls
and listen to the humming of tenochtitlan in their voices.
where are you ladies from? waiters ask, and
they don’t say spain.
old palm tree leaves, tangy cocktails, juanas y marias—
brand their faces, despite the taste of
other earths on their tongues, spurting with everything
but the lives of spanish girls.