[dropcap size=big]T[/dropcap]empt me with tacos—
You can have your queso
birria-style if you must,
nothing can quench my lust
for slow-simmered meat—
Give me guisado, carne
stewed, extra sauce on top—
Pork pulled into strips
crispy as carnitas, or soft
and loose like suadero—
I’ll take mine adobado,
the pollo un poco picante—
Grill and fill my tortilla
with fish a la plancha or
pescado frito. Puff up
the tortilla or make mine
crunchy shell and let’s go
TexMex—it all makes me miss
familia, instead I can ask
for another taste to take me
to the calle where I can eat
my fill as the trompo still turns
and we can make any excuse
for uno mas por favor,
Sigue! The plate of cabrito
passed at the table, a last
meal with Tío, his chiste ready.
First taste of cesos, last of lengua
which really was Papi’s favorite
and what is a border
between cielo and tierra
if not an invisible wall and
what is a taco if not the best
of life cooked down, eaten
in three bites, a catalog of
never-long-enough meals
that only need a little lime,
cilantro, salsa, the bite of onion
that can move us to happy tears.
