Luivette Resto-Ometeotl


LUIVETTE RESTO-OMETEOTL was born in Aguas Buenas, Puerto Rico but proudly raised in the Bronx. She received her BA in English Literature with a concentration in US Latino Studies from Cornell University in 1999. In 2003, she completed her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Massachusetts--Amherst. Her work can be read in Harpur Palate, Albion Review, Falling Star Magazine, The Furnace Review, Latino Today, and Kennesaw Review. Her first collection of poetry, Unfinished Portrait, was recently published in 2008 by Tia Chucha Press. Currently, she lives in the Los Angeles area with her husband, Jose and their three children, Antonio, Sofia, and Joaquin. Resto is a professor at Citrus College where she teaches English Literature and composition writing.






Ascension

We lay on the hood of your ‘96 Tercel
watching the planes land underneath
an unusually clear LA sky,
imagining heading off to lands
where money is abundant
like sand and possibilities.

And when “Love Song” by The Cure played on the radio,
you dragged the tops of your fingernails
up and down my forearm,

as we shared the same early memories of
smoking bidis for the first time
in your step-mom’s basement,
watching 1970s porn like it was a documentary,
reciting each other’s fortunes from our Chinese takeout.

Logic dictated that you wouldn’t like me,
allow me to touch the scar on your right eyebrow
and ask for its story.
But you did.
You confessed to enjoying the silence of
libraries, funeral homes, churches.
Became an atheist when your parents divorced,
left you wondering if you would ever be a good father.

Feeling the coldness of metal on my back

I inched closer to your side of the car,
listened to the unevenness of your breath
between the sounds of jet engines.



No More Tacos in Gwinett County


When the last brown footsteps
walked out of Garfield High School
for the second time,
Gwinnett County, Georgia declared
death to the taco stand.

No more dollar corn tortillas
satiating the appetites of
housekeepers, gardeners, leaf blowers,
waiters, peach pickers, janitors, nannies.
Giving them all a five minute taste of Juarez.

The tacos migrated to Philadelphia with hopes
of finding a friendlier and hungrier crowd.
Instead they found picket lines with
Philly cheesesteaks holding signs.

A sub owner had followed Georgia with a sign of his own
“This is America. When ordering, speak English.”
In the kitchen, Manuel and Juan
diced peppers and onions in silence.

Paranoia and sign making spread to the Midwest
where a Butler County, Ohio jail
had a sign pointed to it
“Illegal Aliens Here.”

The steel bars shivered
because hunger for
revolution and absolution
only existed here.  


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