I’d watch you cook with your manteca
in your brown-tiled kitchen
fuzzy chanclas,
paisley-printed muumuu dress.
***
We found that curly black wig
in the hall closet
You started crying
We were just pretending.
***
We’d sort the gravel from beans
Eat potatoes, skin-on
Raw and sandy
We never talked.
***
We didn’t need to.
You’d call me cabrón
Chase me outside with a broom
Where I picked your red geraniums
***
“Le voy hacer frijolitos como te gustan,”
Dry, cracked, like parched land
All the salt I wanted
Baca’d always get the pan, though.
***
Then in your walker, hunched
Still turning tortillas
On the placa
Crushing your green chilés
***
Serving me café con (mostly) leche
Watching telenovelas
Linda Ronstadt in concert
Lighting velas with saints on them
***
Wiping the kitchen table,
Neatly gathering the crumbs
Near the edge
Flinging them on the floor.
***
Then the blue polyester people
Their sheet,
Molded over you
Took you afuera.