it's just a mess of
hues and kaleidoscopes, but--
your curves are so true

my abuela kneads my hands
like masa. thrift store perfume
dusts her dough crust fingers
and chokes the hundred years
of her kitchen like yearning.


abuela


¿cuándo dejó de cocinar?

The lotus bobs to the current's
cursive, a snow sud residue
tracing atop listless riverwater.

When it brushes against my
ankles a petal splits like a
broken letter, your goodbye.

There was so much left unsaid.