The Abuelita Poem

I. SKIN & CORN

Her brown skin glistens as the sun

pours through the kitchen window

like gold leche. After grinding

the nixtamal, a word so beautifully ethnic

it must not only be italicized but underlined

to let you, the reader, know you’ve encountered

something beautifully ethnic, she kneads

with the hands of centuries-old ancestor

spirits who magically yet realistically posses her

until the masa is smooth as a lowrider’s

chrome bumper. And I know she must do this

with care because it says so on a website

that explains how to make homemade corn tortillas.

So much labor for this peasant bread,

this edible art birthed from Abuelitas’s

brown skin, which is still glistening

in the sun.

II. APOLOGY

Before she died I called my abuelita

grandma. I cannot remember

if she made corn tortillas from scratch

but, O, how she’d flip the factory fresh

El Milagros (Quality Since 1950)

on the burner, bathe them in butter

& salt for her grandchildren.

How she’d knead the buttons

on the telephone, order me food

from Pizza Hut. I assure you,

gentle reader, this was done

with the spirit of Mesoamérica

ablaze in her fingertips.