half of two hungers I, 2023
Sugar, wood, plastic, goats' milk, human bacterial samples, vinegar, cotton-poly blend fabric, guajillo pepper stain, flies, eventually cheese, lactic acid mold, and stench. 
"I stuck $30 vaginal probiotics from whole foods in my denim jacket’s pocket. I did pay for the fermented ginger kombucha and goat's milk plain yogurt to stick in my vagina, so the prokaryotes living in this milky syrup would overpower the foreign ones I was given. A gift from the mayflower. A pregnancy of a million unicellular babies that came from twenty different tinder girls some of which ended up smeared on his bedsheets and some caught by his whitish papillae hiding under his yellowish teeth, one missing, hiding behind his mustache, sugar-coated by cocaine. A sampler deal inside my vagina, cooking for a few days and then hatching into a foul smell. The smell of something piglish, profane, past ripeness. 

I now knew not to eat the white flour, or the white milk, or the white refined sugar those men brought to this land because it would hurt my guts but I guess their white secretions are just as fucked up for my body. My smell before contamination was sweet, crushed pecans, peach juice, and sea salt. Now I am pregnant with a billion babies invading my culture like the settlers, moving westward and north with their stench. Manifest Destiny of bacterial vaginosis. I was a baby that small once, like the prokaryotes, an egg that split into two and grew swelling my mother's belly and ripping it in half, past her endoplasmic reticulum. 

I’m always splitting 
A trail of fragmentations

From my mother
umbilical cord no longer binding us after the transgression of scissors
my external gut tied into a knot and left to dry and rot until it fell out of my belly 
like a small dry root toasted by sun exposure

From my motherland
Traveling north across the border at my father's whim, while he tried to escape himself, but failed 
my mother following with all of her children
getting farther and farther away from her own mother 

From my mother tongue
Being surrounded by another one, a new brain wiring, fewer poetics

When my mother made that spreadable cream cheese she heated the goat’s milk and poured vinegar into it, then she let it sit for a day. Afterward, she would use a strainer to separate the gelatinous solid from the lactic acid. A split after colonization like the creation of those like me. 

“No fue triunfo ni derrota, fue el doloroso nacimiento del pueblo meztio que es el México de hoy.” Dice en tlatelolco. Entonces ninguna escisión es triunfo ni derrota, solo una bifurcación. 

“¿Cuáles son las políticas de la fermentación? La habilitación de redistribuciones físicas y cognitivas del poder. La fermentación nos enseña que las burbujas no son estáticas, que el fervor es emocionante y posible y que el cambio siempre está presente. En tiempos de oscuridad y desesperación, cuando la más aterradora subjetividad parece ser la que está en el poder, gritamos por nuestra oportunidad de ser expansivos.” (Manifiesto Ferviente by Mercedes Villalba.)"

-Excerpt from the text also titled "Half two hungers"
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