In all the tongues I know and use,
kitchen is kusina, cocina; a chair
is silya, a window bintana. The air
turned wintry in November, though we
only ever had frost, not snow. We ate
rice with scalding sopas, not bread; drank
coffee with grounds that swirled to the bottom
of the cup as though fortune always filtered
through a bitter screen. The gods and ancestors
were always watching, waiting for their share,
waiting to disrupt a dream with some reminder:
multo, anito; finger that gently stroked
your cheek, voice that called out an old
name no other mouth knew belonged to you.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.