The tiger and the girl

They told me it was a tiger.

Lying there still in the hot sun.

It made many people stop.

I put up shop where the cage was parked.

With my back to the door that caught the sun.

I am the girl who sells the milk candy between colorful rice paper.

Every day I must sell enough to pay for the bus home and then some.

So I put my stool next to the animal with my basket on my knee.

I got to look at that tiger all day.

We both baked next to black metal barriers.

That tiger was from the circus that came to town.

The men are supposed drive his cage around to advertise.

But they parked illegally and went to drink beer.

The tiger was tired from the heat and went in slow motion.

Sometimes it raised its eyes to look at the people.

It didn’t do much, just sort of waited for the day to be over.

I could tell that tiger was me.

District Federales

In town they simply say you’re going to Mexico, and Sunday away from the international research center, they were right. I was jostling shoulder to shoulder with Mexicans as we wove around the crowded corners and packed streets. The sun politely showed itself through the polluted haze to brighten the colors of the countless awnings, which shaded street vendors’ wares.

The numerous selections of taco stands made me wonder how a person chose which place to sit. Was it the quality of plastic chairs? How fresh the limes cut upon on the table looked? The talent of the cook quickly chopping the meat as it sizzled on the flat grill? Strangely, we were in a square with a high proportion of marzipan sellers. Little, round women rolled colorful dough nonchalantly in their hands while watching their afternoon telenovelas on small televisions under their tables. Clusters of almond candy carefully grouped into miniature fruit displays. Some people stood in line behind steaming vats of corn. An experienced man would thrust a stick into the cob, swirl mayonnaise around the ear, and sprinkle contrasting chili powder on the thing, before handing it to a waiting a hand in one smooth motion

Latin music embeds itself into a pattern as people shuffled along taking their afternoon strolls, and this time it was accompanied by the smooth scales of a bee-boppin’ saxophone. I rolled my head around attempting to locate the noise, and the view surrounding me is diverse: middle-aged mustachioed men holding the hands of their grandchildren, well-dressed women wearing stylish heels, alternative teens with gauges big enough to frame the person’s face behind him. Across the street, I find an old couple who look like they belong together, the way only two people who spent their lives with each other can. The woman with soft wrinkles and a faded red dress leaned against the graffit-ed wall, her eyes closed and her head craned; her face facing her husband’s face. His lips were pursed, carefully around a tenor sax, and from there the melodic sounds sprung and drifted. It was an instance of pure romance—the old hat at his feet was forgotten between them—they lived for this and the moment lived for them.

An active witness to this scene was the performer next to them; a wooden box with a man atop it posed in a tight spandex Batman costume flexing his built-in muscles.

An Ode to the Food of Ecuador

I come from a land of factory food,

Where people oft not walk but waddle.

The lack of flavor came across quite crude,

So at my birthplace I did not dawddle.

A refugee for taste, it became my quest,

To find a cuisine with something more.

I traveled fervently without rest,

Until, finally, I discovered Ecuador!

No friend told me of this new found Eden,

Too afraid my learning might protest.

But O Sweet Mercy! upon this heathen.

What my gut so easily profess.

Fruit so strange in its name and look.

Some made into juice thick with mora [blackberry]

The tree fruit granedilla my heart it took!

The vivid color and fresh¬picked euphoria.

Ceviche breath made from tears of heaven.

Popcorn bobs on top like happy boats.

Underneath swims the bounties of the seas seven.

Such a light meal, my palette dotes.

Verde o moroche empañada,

Stuffed with meat or queso, your desire.

After I demolish it my appetite is nada.

Covered in thin salsa sets my lips on fire!

And with the fruits and breads and meats,

The soups to fill the coldest soul.

Any new dish, I´m happy to greet.

O mountainous country my stomache you stole.