As a baby I could breathe
the sweet milky scent of my mother,
the smoky fire we cooked by,
the wet, gamey smell of the dogs
who licked our faces while we slept.
I know the toasty smell of tortillas,
sweet yucca and plantains,
the spice and salt and corn oil
of the rice and beans
frying in the pan.
But now I can smell the tear gas
sprayed by the border soldiers;
all of us run away, crying, coughing, choking,
carrying babies with their faces tucked against our chests
and pulling the children by the hand.
I think of all the smells,
good and bad,
the ones that mean food and comfort,
the ones that mean pain and fear;
this is a new smell.