Mexico opens her mouth
and laughs, stops momentarily
to listen to the cicadas
busy with their evening-song.
Her daughter chars poblanos and anchos
over the open fire
so slender are her fingers, deftly manipulating the flame.
To concentrate better, Mexico lowers the volume of the small
television set, now only images—
angry, bloated men with their blown-up faces
speaking soundless words.
I slice prickly pear into a bright green bowl
of sweet corn, the kernels
crisp and milky, full of promise
and I think to myself
that this is a gift
to feel so fearless
in face of so many lies,
no consequences.
But here, a mother and daughter can busy themselves
with orphan’s rice, dishes of deep mole amarillo and still-warm tortillas
enough food to feed an army
as leaders, with the luxury of money and time,
wage wars for the rest of the world.
In this half-sleep I almost blink away the cake
but I am already tasting it,
a recipe so illogical no baker would ever admit to making it.
Smooth batter, the exquisite color of stars.
My tongue fills with rich dulce de leche
and a top layer of tender cactus paddle whipped into a mousse.
Mexico and her daughter let me split open
the pomegranate lush with juice
that stains my wrists and hands.
We adorn the frosting with arils
like jewels, traces of indelible bloodlines
on a cake offered only in a dream