Can You Smell the Burritos, Enchiladas, & Tamales in My Kitchen? Lauren Wells
I found love, tucked in a tortilla. And I know what you’re thinking. Ain’t that just the fajita, the frijoles that burn and warm the whole of your belly? That ain’t love. But let me tell you about my great grandmother’s palms. How the dough fit like a god-given miracle in the lines of her hand, & how the rhythm came to her in the same way that we all have a lullaby in our temples, ready to rumble lowly & sweetly in our throats. Let me tell you about my grandmother’s magic and how she can toss cilantro, carne, & her own touch of spiced herbs into her sunflower-yellow cauldron. The way the magic salsas like laughter in the air & smells like fertile earth, rich in holiness & hearth. How it cures the ailments of wandering people & sleepless nights & ancestor sickness, and how she warms the comal to the right heat with a flick of her wrist and tosses the torta, browned like our roots. And let me tell you about my mother’s mouth. How her tongue was born to authenticity with its parents from the bear, the strawberry tree, crown, & the feathered serpent, & how her mouth knows the proper taste but not las palabras de nuestro gente for El Bueno y El Mal, & how she can lick her lips & recall the crunch, the flour, the softness. Mi Bisabuela hugs my palms to her lips, blows the gift of god into them, falling softly to rest in my bones. Mi Abuela dances around me. Twisting, twirling, she puts her medicine on my back, puts her hechizos in my feet. Mami brings me the language she could not make hers, 36
2020 Still Life
