FRANCISCO
SERRANO

I Spent Most of 19 in Elevators and Beds and Trains 

One time I got the idea to pretend to fall asleep 
He continued to shovel his tongue down in my gums, my tongue, my teeth
Trying to rip my tongue and everything it could say in that moment out
With his eyeballs touching mine 
Brushing my tongue over and over and over
Mimicking on what were body parts before this

Gone was the fear of being seen naked 

In the pocket of my denim pants crawling away on the floor somewhere  
He will find my Mother's gold chain 
That I take off in the elevator each time
I do not want her to get a gut feeling while working in the factory line 
This is not the work she would flaunt to her comadres about

Immigrant Sitcom

Published on Tint Journal, Issue Spring '20

When you are an immigrant on the cusp of being American, meaning you came to America early enough you end up knowing more about here than there but late enough that the government treats you differently than your classmates, you come to realize your issues and theirs are not the same. Not getting asked to the homecoming dance is not as scary as your family being gone when you come home the day of the homecoming dance.

And if you knew me, you would be asking me, “Why are you worrying so much? You’re not a criminal...and your family is so nice all the time.” American naiveness; still thinking people in uniforms would notice or care about the difference.

In a time where television shapes your outlook, I wish there was a TV sitcom about immigrants; a coming of age TV sitcom episode where the 15 year old learns they cannot get a license or a job or travel abroad after taking French at school and planning their trip with their friends. How will they deal with it? Stay tuned for the next episode!

Or like a Mother’s Day episode where a Latina woman is asking her six year old son what kind of snacks he wants and suddenly a white woman approaches her with foam in her mouth, screaming at her,

“GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY.”

“NOBODY WANTS YOU HERE.”

“SPEAK ENGLISH.”

Then it cuts to the mother putting her child to sleep by giving them a kiss on the forehead, walking to the kitchen and then silently crying under the one single lightbulb. Maybe then America will not look away and finally go,“awww,” along with the live studio audience. Or maybe a lighter take on the immigrant experience, like when 14 year old Brenda starts working in the same factory her mother works in during the Summer instead of taking the Sun by the pool. But it's not so bad, because during lunchtime she sits with the other underage kids working under illegal names. Maybe the audience will want to rewatch them over and over and over like they do with FRIENDS. Maybe it would even be on Disney! Then our children would be children. Not baggage, not dirty criminals, not drug dealers. Since people are so tired of the news because it makes them so sad, I think going with a Disney vibe would be so refreshing, right?

Maybe we’ll get more than one season. In season two maybe the main character deals with not being an all straight-A student or valedictorian but still feels like he matters to this country...right? In season 3, the immigrant parents go to therapy and heal all the hurt they have inside. In season 4, if we get confirmed for it, it would be cool to see the immigrant protagonist cry from happiness for once. Not out of relief because the worst didn’t happen: just pure joy, could be a great plot twist. I think we should see immigrant experiences on a TV screen with lines and plots for people to understand that we are robbing generations of their childhood. How will kids deal with normal teenager problems when they’re seeing moms, dads, daughters, sons, and neighbors like theirs being mistreated, being abused, tormented and separated, without warning; without pity. A theme song will play where a nearly bald white man in a classic dark blue suit cuts the umbilical cord and throws it across the border and says, “go fetch.”

CORAZON DE MELON

mi corazón de melón 
bueno solo en el verano
tastes so good
you let it drip down the side of your mouth
how do you want me?
as a drink, snack?
to go? 
so you hold me a little longer?
to fill you up a little longer?
mi corazón de melón
por qué no me necesitas en el otoño 
me extrañas en el invierno?
mi corazón de melón
no lo quieres cada dia
mi corazón de melón 
cuanto me gustaba como lo partias 
into uneven slices 
con disculpas a sabor a tajín encima
tu sonrisa
con tal de hacerte feliz
olvidaba lo que algún punto me dolía

YOUNG HUNG AND FULL OF INSECURITIES 

When you turn 20 you die / For the first time in this lifetime / Panic blooms from consciousness / A silent film scream / All as you change / And change / You always fucking change / You go through personalities / People / Your facial features grew into themselves / Your ears are finally even / You still hate your nose / Always unsatisfied / Spoiled belly always hungry / Like you have not eaten in 20 years / But you will stop enjoy the flavor of your mistakes and wins / tears and laughs / You will realize no one is taking them away / So young / So beautiful / So charismatic / I feel the melting / Skinning myself / Candle wax meat / When you see me what do you see? / Someone physically close? / Someone that brings back memories? / Of when you were once also young, hung and full of insecurities? / But you are light years of experiences away / I, still accepting compliments like looking up at the Sun /  But what did you do with the panic? / With the empty belly? / When did you start saying good morning to your reflection instead of avoiding it like a stranger asking for help? / How are you here? / Showcasing a smile I had been warned to be weary of / But I am so blind / So 20 / By the time I get home all the sand is off my feet

Theres No Crying in Borders 

  Published on, 'What They Leave Behind'

The first time I learned that if I repeat “don’t cry” under my breath then it won’t happen

Was while hiding under a corral in the middle of the desert at 8 years old 

We all crawled, single, file line, from one darkness into another

In this one, no Moon

Under the Earth, the smell of roots, the feeling of textures but no sight of them 

How death must be in a parallel universe

One where when you die, the soul leaves but the lungs keep on breathtaking

The heart continues to beat in a monotone tempo

Chest rising and falling, eyes looking straight forward, for the rest of eternity

In this universe, just until you get the signal about being picked up to be taken closer to El Norte

Must be how angels feel before they are taken to the gates of heaven 

The metaphor list is endless and so is the list of bodies missing

That never got picked up but I know have made it to Heaven 

I’m not sure about how long we were underground

The way I keep track of time in my memories is by using a specific moment

Before I whispered to my Mother that I needed to pee

And after she responded back with, ‘aslo,’ to go ahead

The others chimed in saying that it was okay, to not be embarrassed

Voices with no faces, sounds coming from random directions

No Moon in this memory

I felt the warmth run down my thighs, down the back of my knee

I felt it slither and split into a three headed snake as water tends to do 

No llores, no llores, no llores I thought to myself

No llores, no llores, no llores, no llores, no llores…

Solitude Rays

As the Summer Sun rolls in, I am gazing at my jackets from Fall. How much longer will I go on containing the urge of escaping and nestling in the lavender I'd leave in my pockets for luck. Oh the myths managed by superstitious minds. The rain outside starts to sound like your shower. I went through your shirts to find one to sleep in, treated them like a library, and felt each story. I will ask about the one I’m wearing while you’re drying your hair off. Oh and do you still start your Saturdays with Chelsea Morning? I still let you sing your parts. I improvise and let the silence be chorused by my movements. Exaggerated promise that alone is fine. Making the bed, light the incense, being alone, getting the coffee going.

More Sun than Boy

Although we are not speaking, is this how you talk to me?

rays of light placed like punctuation 

in corners of trees

crossing on windows across the street

last time I looked at sunlight so humanly 

you were more Sun than Boy in a bed that continues to be yours

glass doesn't confine light in the way flesh does

a glowing pearl radiating over my skin, over the walls

i kept count  

of how many turns in your sleep it took for dawn to be blue

your body, my time and my space 

life gifts doppelgangers for my burgeoning sickness

bodies that are more Boy than Sun

so i find my eyes on the window 

wondering when you’ll talk to me again

Matches

My perfect match

green flames blue in your exhale

we can leave aurora lights haunting over the East Village

my first, thought to be my last 

yet i wake up feeling my bones to mold into my skin 

scattered diffused matches on the duvet 

never thought i’d find myself here

grab onto one like the collar of your shirt as you disappeared