Tortillas are round like the sun which

rarely shines in this dark northern winter.

 

The taste of your kiss from the

south is delicate.

 

I only dream of such a place,

no need for heavy jackets.

 

But in the north we talk of walls.

 

Your land slow,

families strong.

 

In the north we want to build a wall.

 

Our crude imitations make

us think we understand you.

 

Bought in big box stores, bright

fluorescent lights pretend to be sun.

 

Your subtlety and pureness

are lost in this busy land.

 

So my country talks of walls.

 

We want to change you

and rearrange you.

 

We want you, need

those that make you,

build a wall to expel them.

 

Your taste has a perfection and

simplicity that eludes us.

 

So my country speaks in walls.

 

In Mexico, small rock walls are

an askew art form, in touch with the

earth, that make ours a wall of shame.

And who you are is lost to us.