Saturday, November 5, 2011
Wake
La guerra tambien se come
Secret Ingredient
Pupusa: traditional Salvadoran dish made of thick, hand-made corn tortilla that is filled with a blend of the following: cheese, cooked pork meat ground to a paste consistency, squash, refried beans or cheese and loroco flowers.
If you have never
Eaten one
you must delay no further
If you have--
You attest
Once upon
it was not easy
to find pupusas…here
but civil war … there
changed that
WAR Cultural Ambasador
brought pupuserias to the US
by 1993 newspapers
listed “Seductive Salvadoran”
in the pages of culinary reviews
Pupusas are eaten with a cabbage slaw called curtido and a watery, tangy tomato salsa. Pour salsa over the pupusa and over that, place the curtido. You will arrive at a combination of hot, moist dense masa with a satisfying filling, a counterpoint to the earthy, crunchy cabbage slaw.
when you eat them
remember the secret ingredient:
a dash of War
worry not
you need not look
for shaker on table
with a WAR/GUERRA label
rest assured it is in every pupusa
and worry not
about paying extra
others already have
shrapnel in leg funeral of cousin with unrecognizable face terror in the eye pounding heart tanks on the way to school bullets ricocheting past smell of burned rubber dogs smelling corpses killing of hundreds left to flies thousands of orphaned children more thousands maimed the tortured the ones who lost their bodies lost minds children left behind mothers raped crossing border fathers waiting for work on street corners faceless
Salvadorans lug
War
at the cellular level
involuntary action
the women –always women-
dexterously shape masa
into pupusas
and war sloughs off
falls
from skin, spleen
unstable atoms
half lives
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
En Febrero
(para mi padre)
Todos los días
arreglo la mesa
pongo el mantel
roto por estrellas fugaces
las cuales en sus anchas
y peludas colas
llevan sílabas de infancia
más palabras nunca armadas
con polvo de garganta
exiliada y ácida
palabras, lanzadas al silencio
amarradas con huezo
y pencas de Corazón
piedras astrales
broches de cometas
que corren por sueños y tormentas
ya sabran soltarlas,
dedos sobre guitarra
gajos maduros
con olor a cilantro
y tildes de mango,
sobre el patio de su casa.
From here to there
(for my father)
Every Evening
I set the table
lay the tablecloth
torn by shooting stars
that carry in their wide
furry tails
childhood syllables
and words never shaped
with dust from throat
acidic and exiled
words cast to silence
tied with bone and heart’s cord
astral rocks
comet brooches
that travel dreams and storms alike
will know
when to let go,
fingers on guitar strings
ripe bunches
with aroma of cilantro
and mango accents,
over your garden
will fall.