those early attempts at a Mexican food
no store bought cardboard taco shells
she had to prepare her own
the appearance of the tortilla press
the arrival of the tortilla holder
became a beginning to a menagerie of new tools
experiments with red and green chili
she chose to pursue red, much spicier
and as with her marinara ages well in the freezer
as i have well noticed sitting at the table
each addition of graying, each wrinkle
an age spot upon alabaster hands
across that table, my love has only deepened
having stolen more than my heart
she had captivated the soul therein
she prefers beef to pork
altho her lemon-pepper pork roast is heavenly
marinated in lemons from the tree she chose
and her secret assembly of spices and pepper
taco meat is seasoned to perfection
she shreds and marinates the beef
a lecture on judicious use of cheaper roasts
her own hand made pico de gallo
store-bought never, revealing the craft
chopping onions with nary a tear
the utensils began accruing
setting up the kitchen one could see Mexico
it is the same for a poem
lines that need work, crafting language
a process ensuring a satisfactory execution
it is a labor of love
a dedication to the creativity you possess
rewarding the gift with unceasing labor
how well i remember the decision
Mexican rice simply fails the assault
Spanish rice, diced tomatoes, basil. onion
garlic was thrown in to mix with vermicelli
changing at times with yellow rice, coloring
topped with more diced tomatoes, cilantro
a light coloring shredded cheese
sometimes an interplay of white and yellow
it is a poem that grows in language
and so you see when i say
each bite a sonnet, each dish is part
of my best-loved poems
i am talking about the presentation
the red chili burro smothered in sauce
upon a bed of green shredded lettuce
hemmed in by diced tomatoes, black olives
topped by shredded white and yellow cheese
with dollops of sour cream and avocado
another plate of quesadillas
filled with green chilis, green olives, cheese
one never knew which cheese she would choose
Fresco, Oaxaca, Manchego, Asadero
my yellow, white American disappeared with marriage
tacos stuffed with spicy shredded beef
not like restaurant style
an exhilarating ride thru spice and herb
spilling out shredded lettuce, tomatoes, cheese
homemade salsa to top it all
it is a gastronomical orgasm
i never achieved with any poet
and altho the children are gone
one would think meals would be simpler
her craft is never to be denied
as i have said a thousand times
my only goal is to encourage hers
and hers is the magic upon the table
the sorceress who loves me
is enough in my life
once i showed up wearing a sombrero
she looked at me across from the kitchen
do i make faces at you when writing, she said
to displease a chef is folly,
never again did the sombrero appear
but the tongue of love did become whispers
arrows of adoration seeking her with serious intent
taking her hand, locking into eyes, a ship in harbor
sus ojos son pajaros, de quien roban
mi pensamientos, mi aliento, mi corazon
en tus brazos el cielo encontre
your eyes are birds who steal my thoughts
my breath, my heart
in your arms, i have found heaven
if love in you does not evoke another language
you have failed to explore its possible depths
you have failed the language love bears
yet the bigger sin in all of this
is to miss the poetry that fills our lives
the poetry that requires nary a word to behold
only an eye for the beauty that envelopes existence
3/3/19
