grandmother cooks with spice.
she chops pepper, dices onion,
sprinkles salt and seasons with sazón,
rubbing adobo into the fat of meat.
the kitchen smells
of garlic and cilantro.
the kitchen smells of home.
she cooks and cooks
and the kitchen is filled with food
that reminds her of home
but cannot take her back.
she can stir the island in a pot,
fry the island in a pan,
serve the island on a plate,
and hold the island in her mouth
with just a hint of spice on her tongue,
a whisper of flavor on her tastebuds,
but she cannot go back.
and this, perhaps, is why she is always
so hungry.
YOU ARE READING
seams and stitching ♡ published
Poetry"this is your kind of story. no one is the good guy-- no one is the bad guy-- the blame shifts from monster to monster and in this place everyone bares their teeth." [featured. highest ranking: #6 in poetry.]
