© 2019 by Claudia A. García Cortés

Facebook                     Instagram                     Twitter

6. La Fayuca Álvaro Obregón

Originally published:

Exile Literary Quarterly

Vol. 40  #1

Girl on metro this morning with wet hair,

doing her eyes with a spoon. Her skinny

thighs in pink leggings under cut off jean

shorts, hostage to a new media audiovisual posture of movement, with a hash pipe key

chain dangling in chainlink from her blue

jean’s sidepocket, but as a sort of Catholic

girl iconoclast, lost in thought & uninvolved.


Coming-out at La Fayuca Obregon, with a little

help from the habit, kicking a coca cola red can white, to a gentrified retro-colonial wine bar, where we bärˈbi ch ərit in pulpfiction: breakfast

is wine, warm croissants with apple butter, carmelized pear with a hot plate of pig skin

and braised Oaxacan palm hearts, in a gentrified district on chairs of red polyethelene.


Business woman in grey pencil skirt,

her blouse clinging to her wet back,

walking-by with an uptown hauteur,

beside a sidewalk marimba band

in guayaberas, who picked-up
on the sashay of her slow thighs walking

by by slowing the song down to souvenir

the sight, and the men at the bar came

out of the bar, and the people
at patio tables put down their pie charts.

And when I came out the apartment
a woman in a housedress and apron
was crying, she had pancake batter
on her hands and apron, and flour
on her apron, just standing there doing

time in the doorway with just the right

amount of sorrow to sustain jouissance

in the stranger I, as two backpacking

blonde women snapped camera
phone photostills to souvenir the sight.



Under a cool sunless hurrying grey that was but a moment ago all open peripheral blue.



As a short woman with sulking breasts in a blue t-shirt sold fruit by megaphone from a flatbed half ton.

la fayuca álvaro obregón - los jodidos
00:00 / 00:00