Devon Santos

Small are your parts

each little bead

contributing to the whole.

With a dash of corn

and chopped onion

you sit, ready to

be carefully wrapped

in a tortilla (of the corn variety, of course).

Only a hint,

a clue really,

of tomato,

by which you derive

your hue

of angry orange.

And it is you

that stories are

told over.

You who

witnesses jovial

conversation amongst family.

You indeed are family.

A dish passed on,

a taste repeated,

a heritage preserved.

They may have you in

all corners of the world,

but when you find

yourself in our

pot, you’re different.

For you are my

mother’s rice,

and before that my

father’s rice,

and now

mine.

And I can assure you’ll always be kept

in good company.  

An Epislatory Study

My dearest,

I wish.

I wish I had known before

of the ability with which you possess between your lips.

The ability to conjure harmony from air, and to sweeten the wind with your soft words.

I wish I had known before of your singing

of your melodies

and of your notes.

For you could hit them so well that I borrowed some,

as neighbors borrow sugar.

And give them back I could not,

for they made everything

a little more

palatable.