The L word

Santiago Ureña

Tattoo art: Genevieve Caron

I ate the lemon you gave me
with pozole.
I squeezed sour green

into the stew and it tasted like
the purest expression
of mixed-race affection:
eating food that never tastes as good
on this side of the border,
with citrus you bought on The Drive.

I know.
Technically, it's a lime.
But that's not what I call it
back home; that word
never really fits
my migrant lips.
I know what this is.
It's limón.