papi and mami run the taco shop on 95th street.
the grease stains my fingernails before I touch the food.
deft fingers work the dough-
it remembers our last name better than I do.
as I watch mami hunched over the stove,
cheeks flushed like red cometas Hernando gave me.
I wear my apron,
familiar fingers tie the knot for me-
guiding me to the pot of los frijoles
steam colors my cheeks the same stubborn crimson as I hunch.
my fingers chop the vegetables,
stained with onion juice
as I get lost in the language of my ancestors.
I still stumble over my Spanish,
but my palms still remember how much flour to dust
don’t put too much chili—el diablo will swallow their tongue
Papi’s laughter spills through the kitchen,
mingling with the last light of the evening.
By closing,
the grease still rests beneath my fingernails.
Tomorrow, I’ll tie the apron myself.
A really happy read