Sara Borjas
Spanish
I don't remember the sounds rising
from my body, when my mother calls me míja
over the phone. But my vertebrae, made of confusion
chow mein and stars feel saucy today. And even though
my lips are rusted, I hear my mother speak Spanish
and the gold loops spiral in me. The caldo
de res the chopped carrots the no measure
cooking the stiff broom good
for corners the stubborn
apology the mangled
love the cacti
exploding
in my molcajete
body my first
galaxy my
grinding
blood.
Bio
Sara Borjas is a poetbartenderteacher from Fresno, California. She earned her MFA from UC Riverside and her interests include space and time, memory, aromatics, crafted beers and cocktails, and hospitality and bar culture. She is the editor for the LoWriter of the Week Poetry Series. She currently bartends and lives in Los Angeles and likes it there.