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In the retablo I see myself grinding the corn to make tortillas chiles drying overhead lending their heat to the beans simmering these mortars and pestle movements all I know of this life baby at my breast swollen stomach wide as a sombrero Francisco laughing, hand on belly, in the doorway trying to make his way back to Texas 
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These delicious aromas like foreign countries Come back to bed skin smelling of coffee grounds and cigarettes arms like orange rinds wrap themselves around me and I give in to these delicious aromas like foreign countries no concept of the currency accepted I open to you as a window opens out onto rooftops arms spread wide ready to take in the rush should I fall narrow cobblestone to catch me  |
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