güera they called my mother,                    whitest of seven siblings,                                        though she was never white as snowor milk—her skin tinged amber                    like the Mexican cheese that smelled of feet                                        that I refused to eat as a child, convincedthe cheese was mixed                    by rancher’s bare toes, like grapes                                        mashed to make some tawny wineand from brown and cracked soles                    acquired its yellow color, inherited                                        the yellow skin, odorous hard wheelthat did not melt, only crumbled when fresh                    or aged would shred upon metallic scales                                        to sawdust or confetti strands that,when sprinkled, exhaled a pungent breath                    of naked feet that have kissed the earth,                                        stroked bare cement floors, caressed the skinof other feet, and from contact grown callused                    but beautiful, that if covered must breathe                                        through open-toed shoes—huaraches, thatwas my mother, the güera needing air                    and when her flesh was tossed into the melting                                        pot, she resisted, the strength of callused soles,hard, ungrated as she tread upon this foreign soil                    barefoot, an acquired taste that if you smelled                                        and did not eat, you could not understand