On the Eve we eat
menudo. Onion mimics moon
from a small bowl, glinted fractals
of itself. Cilantro’s diced flesh
lingers in the air. Bolilllos wait,
steam rising. We all wait.
I have inherited this––my life
on this schism of wild land, purple
montañas littered by desert
primrose, a muddy river
and barbed wire severs its belly,
a belly of celebration and fear––and I am
often reminded. Despite identity,
we can be betrayed by light’s
relation to earth and her borders.
Tripe is always surprising
depending on where it originally slept
in the animal, throat or mouth or gut.
Texture rubs across the tongue or
cheeks and grinds between teeth,
smooth small bumps or honey-comb
fractured. These bites, a ritual
amid hominy and broth, simmered
for hours of conversation and sore knuckles.
. . . . . . . .Add dried oregano and jalapeño.
. . . . . . . .O mija, you are eating menudo?
I want to taste these insides
that make me absolute, unquestioned
as that single guiding star.
Part of The Learned Pig’s Wolf Crossing editorial season, spring/summer 2017.
Image credit: Squid Ink, via Flickr