The Acentos Review May 2012
 
Bio Corey Don Mingura completed his MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Central Oklahoma in May 2011. His works of fiction, poetry, and poetry analysis have appeared or are forthcoming in Westview, The Simms Review, The Writing Disorder, Red Lightbulbs and The Scissortale Review. His short story “Consuela’s Best” appeared in the June 2010 issue of The Acentos Review. He currently serves as the associate poetry editor for Arcadia. Mingura is a Mexican-American native of Hollis, Oklahoma.
3 Poems Octopus Tacos Helping my grandmother buy groceries, we head to the ethnic section. I load her cart with canned beans and chiles and before we leave the aisle, she sees the sign and asks,“ What is Kosher?” “It’s Jewish food,” I say. She clutches her crucifix and points to the gefilte fish. “Read me what’s in there,” she says. I do. “Carp, pike, mullet, matzoh meal.” “¡Ay Dios Mio!” she says. “They took the nastiest fish you can imagine, and mashed them together with eggs and flour.” She sighs. “That’s what happens when you don’t believe in Jesus, mijo. You eat crazy shit.” Later I go with her to the Mexican meat market and see food with Christ’s blessing: Pig heads, cow tongues, entrails, eyeballs. Grandma grasps two hooves and says “These would make a nice soup for Sunday after church.” In the seafood corner, I wonder what a man of Israel would think if he walked in and saw the dead octopus behind the butcher’s glass, purple suction cup legs dangling out of A folded corn tortilla. Identity You look like someone familiar, Someone famous, if he were Japanese. A Japanese John Lennon. But I am not Japanese. I am a Mexican. But isn’t your last name Mingura? That doesn’t sound Mexican! Let me think. Mingura… Minguravich…No! Maybe it’s short for Migurasfki. It sounds likes it’s Slovakian Or Russian perhaps, Or even from the Czech Republic, But not Mexican. I assure you I’m a Mexican. But your accent! What does it sound like? Mexican? No, no, no, Corey Don! It sounds like it comes from somewhere else. Spain? No, no, no. It’s nothing Hispanic! Your accent sounds like It’s possibly Polish, Austrian or German. But nothing Hispanic! I’m positive I’m A Mexican. To My Chicanohood They say you taste Like Rice and Beans. You do. But that’s just one of Your beautiful attributes. You are a keg at a Kindergarten Graduation party, The five sticks of incense choking My grandfather, The Virgin Mary and Jesus Air Fresheners. One of your houses Is the only place to see A cow skull hanging next To a crucifix or a picture of Saint Jude. Your decorative Taste is impeccable. But all is not well with you. I’ve seen the best minds Of my ethnic nation Destroyed by lard. But the soup in the fridge Remains congealed. And at four, I hated you. I cried when my mother told Me I wasn’t white. Screamed, “Mommy, I don’t Wanna be a dirty Mexican! But at ten, I adored you, Filling myself with sheets Of fried pork skins, Begging my mother To broil another batch Of intestines and beef cheeks. But still you and my peers Called me a coconut— Brown on the outside White on the inside— Because of the As Smothering my report card. But still I persevered Into my adult years, Frequenting the Ranchero Dance halls, drinking tequila, Getting dead drunk, and Sliding my feet all night until You finally accepted me.