by Pilar García
the sounds of divergent languages
are muffled, cased away in
corn husks — stripping
them away into a walmart
trash can— I watch the
woman in front of me
(pale as can be
glasses perched on her nose
nearly invisible eyebrows
knitted into concentration
chapped lips parting as I
can do nothing but stare)
throw away
their brittle coats that
could be used for so
many other things — do
you not steam them — do
you not want to grill them — do
you not want to play with them like paper dolls — do
you not sit with your
abuelita and have her lecture
you over the wrappers of
the tamales?
(yo tampoco)
not anymore.
(despilfarrador)
oh, god,
what a waste.
I watch the grandma in
front of me shuck her
casings of corn
straight into the
walmart waste bin.
Pilar García is a current undergraduate pursuing their Bachelor’s in English at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. They have previously been published in Perceptions and Hedera Helix. When they are not writing, they spend their time drinking earl gray and enjoying their cats’ company.