Note: Mexico is in America, too.

by thereisnosurvivorsguide

I cannot stop thinking about wraps.

The kinds we get in hip coffee shops and in sandwich places.  Filled with vegetarian options.  Filled with white-washed fried chicken, tender, we only desire breasts.  Refusing to respect, or even use, the whole chicken we now grow mutated breasts that can barely cluck.  Serve it with a pickle.

Filled to fill the void of carbs we can no longer have.  Rejecting the enRICHed wheat that’s popularity began as a government subsidy, rations.  Rejection always a privilege.

It’s a trend.  It’s cool.  It’s delicious.

It’s a fucking tortilla.

But we dress them up.  Disguise: whole wheat brown, spinach green, tomato-basil red.

And mouths full of brown profiles we demand green cards, handcuffed deportation for the media–

behind the camera remain silent, pick those red, red tomatoes for not enough to buy one, we need to keep costs down, we need to fill up those alien tortillas.  Wrap it up and make it our own, because we are so fucking empty.

Order America a wrap.  She is starving, in English.

I should conclude, but now I am busy wondering what the Aztecs thought when the Spaniards came for their gold, stole their flat-bread, and started calling it a tortilla. . .

Note: Mexico is in America, too.

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