Dance of Two Line Cooks
by Mamie Morgan
for Celso
“There are days when I feel I am becoming good
at what I do. And then I wonder, what does it mean
to be good at this?”
-Francisco Cantu, U.S. Border Patrol, 2008-2012
“There are days when I feel I am becoming good
at what I do. And then I wonder, what does it mean
to be good at this?”
-Francisco Cantu, U.S. Border Patrol, 2008-2012
I.
Mi maestra, I am
too stupid for a wife, he says.
Then, as if to explain,
rolls a single pant leg
to unearth a traveling song
of scars. One night, all the men
on my side of Guatemala
told me not to run, and I ran.
II.
There are days when I feel
better at scrubbing sunchokes
than teaching the sacrifice
of Iphigenia to seventh grade
prep school kids just up the road,
how brave it was she knew her place.
Days I clock in at the restaurant
so tired Celso assumes I’ve been up
all night fucking. Squeaky-squeaky,
he says, mock-humping the CO2 tank
in dry storage like we both don’t sleep
on mattresses that lie flat against a floor.
He goes back to shaving
four hundred garlic cloves against
the blade of a mandolin having tied
the superhero mask of restaurant-grade
plastic wrap around his head
to protect the eyes. I go back to scrawling
today’s date in Sharpie across
the wide chests of quart containers.
We laugh a laugh that sets
just enough rules on fire to fulfill
the sweet tooth of resentment, which
can make a mockery of almost anything.
III.
The first year I asked
how he came to this country
Celso said, I travel
by bus you stupid slut.
Vos ramera torpe.
The fourth year I asked
he said, We walked.
We passed skeletons lying
facedown still wearing
their backpacks. All the things inside
were gone: apples and water,
all of their shy-mouthed sisters.
Mi maestra, I am
too stupid for a wife, he says.
Then, as if to explain,
rolls a single pant leg
to unearth a traveling song
of scars. One night, all the men
on my side of Guatemala
told me not to run, and I ran.
II.
There are days when I feel
better at scrubbing sunchokes
than teaching the sacrifice
of Iphigenia to seventh grade
prep school kids just up the road,
how brave it was she knew her place.
Days I clock in at the restaurant
so tired Celso assumes I’ve been up
all night fucking. Squeaky-squeaky,
he says, mock-humping the CO2 tank
in dry storage like we both don’t sleep
on mattresses that lie flat against a floor.
He goes back to shaving
four hundred garlic cloves against
the blade of a mandolin having tied
the superhero mask of restaurant-grade
plastic wrap around his head
to protect the eyes. I go back to scrawling
today’s date in Sharpie across
the wide chests of quart containers.
We laugh a laugh that sets
just enough rules on fire to fulfill
the sweet tooth of resentment, which
can make a mockery of almost anything.
III.
The first year I asked
how he came to this country
Celso said, I travel
by bus you stupid slut.
Vos ramera torpe.
The fourth year I asked
he said, We walked.
We passed skeletons lying
facedown still wearing
their backpacks. All the things inside
were gone: apples and water,
all of their shy-mouthed sisters.
Mamie Morgan teaches poetry at The South Carolina Governor's School for the Arts and Humanities. Her work has appeared in Oxford American, Four Way Review, Carolina Quarterly, Inkwell, Cimarron Review, The Greensboro Review, and elsewhere.