Grecia Huesca Dominguez


Grecia Huesca Dominguez is a poet from Veracruz, Mexico and a proud New Yorker since 1999. She is currently a DACA recipient and a single mother to a 7-year-old. She is the founder of the Latinx Writers Collective, a collective that aims to provide community and writing resources to Latinx Writers. She currently works as a Spanish language editor in Westchester. 

Instagram:@greciahdom and @latinxwriterscollective


How I died

I remember the day you

taught me to fold your laundry

just the way your mother did.

I watched you the way new mothers

watch their babies yawn.


Pants, jeans, t-shirts,

sweaters layered like wedding cakes,

socks lined up like perfect white teeth.


I learned to sort the meat into different plastic bags

the way your mother did, too.

I put them next to the love I tried to keep for you–

both slowly varnished by freezer burn.






Mexican Remedies


When I tell my tías

that I have a stomachache,

they cure me of empacho and 

feed me olive oil with salt

and seltzer con limón.


When I tell my tías

that I have a cold,

they make me caldo de pollo,

they put Vaporú on my chest

and even under my feet.


When I tell my tías 

that I have a cough,

they tell me to drink 

a shot of tequila o aguardiente,

porque eso lo cura todo.


But when I tell my tías

that I am depressed or

have anxiety, they tell

me to pray it away,

they tell me to just move on

with my life and not think about it.


There are no Mexican

remedies for that.




How to cure empacho

Your mother and a committee–

made up of her six sisters

and your grandmother– decide

that your stomach ache

is probably due to empacho.

They make you go

into your grandma’s

room and take off

your itchy, yellow taffeta dress

so your grandma can

knead your stomach 

the way she kneads masa

To make tortillas.

You try not to cry,

but you do because

your skin aches

but also because

now you have to

wear basil leaves dipped

in alcohol fastened to

your stomach with a

plastic bag until you poop.

They make you sit

on the front porch

and you watch

the town's people

go to Easter Mass.

You sit there feeling like

a prickly pineapple

and you wonder

why they can’t

just give you the pink

stuff in the commercials.

You sit there itchy

and bloated and sore

while everyone is at church.

You come to feel like this

many more times in your life,

except that at some point,

your grandma and your tías aren’t there.

At some point, you do drink the pink stuff,

and find yourself missing your grandma

and her hands.



He sits on his rocking chair

out back.

He uses a Phillips

screwdriver to

take the dry maíz

off the mazorcas

to feed abuela's pollos.

I ask him to help me

with my English homework.

He tries.

¿Cómo se dice

fresa en inglés?


He tries to understand,

but he can't.

Did I say it right?

No sé, he says.

He tries but he can't.

He tries.

I go on and remember

this every time

someone asks if

I really didn't know

any English when I

first moved to New York.

I go on and tell them that

I knew random words.




© The Acentos Review 2019