You melt on the tongue
like summers in Yoro against skin—
furl in my hands with ease
as though a bed lies within my palms
and you are but a child
in search of rest.
Freckles dot your body
in a gentle crisp between teeth
like the leaves against grass
as we raked them into piles,
felt them splash into the air
with each dive—watched them
rain to the ground
in the wind.
Wisps of smoke wander
from the comal beneath your round frame
as you swell with pride, and I wonder
how you remain so still
while time begins to end—
when death is no more than
a plate away.
Why is dying so sad, you ask
as you wait at my lips. Think
of all the people I have fed, the stomachs
I have warmed. I was made by
tender hands to do tender things.
We come and we go, my dear.
We come and we go.
But even then, should you remember
the mountain at the table’s center,
the Maseca on your thumb,
the steam upon your face
and the chewing that filled the room,
I shall remain.
