Arroz Con Pollo
There’s the food beside me,
The food,
That steams like clouds of smoke,
Smoke from log-wood chicken,
Chicken cut with experienced hands,
Though bones still poke out of the mass.
The rice beside it is plain and sauceless,
White and bleached,
A juxtaposition to the meat,
The meat from her nation besides the style of a grain not her own.
There’s that taste of her country,
And a little hint of mine,
And the presence of her late husband,
Too sick for me to even once pagmamano.
The steam is so strong,
Like a fireplace on my face,
And I’m too scared to break it,
By spooning the temporary love of my grandmother,
The love that in hours,
Will turn into shit.