I sipped on mango
Grown from the land
Boiled and strained with dulce
She made it taste like love
Her furrowed brow
Casts a shadow above her gaze
That could make my blood run cold
And cement me in place
Her hands are wrinkled
Like tissue paper
Soft to the touch
With her hand in mine
She did the work of ten men
And hoisted trees on her back
Without an ox
She was just a girl
She baked bread
To perfection
A touch the flour needed to rise
Just right, perfectly warm
To bake she had to grind maize
Her arms cranked
As her skin sagged
She did work with love, she said
She has seen suffering
I hear the tales of her life
To break my heart,
and bond it back together with gold
I traveled far
To finally fill the space between me
And her embrace
That always found a way back home
Her arms still wrap me up
like banana leaves to masa
Tied tightly with string
She always liked olives in her tamales
I know she doesn’t know
how to say things right
Her tongue coated in hombre grande
Cut-throat as the machete she yields
I love her so much, I fear her
Or I fear her so much, I love her
Like my father she came before
Their voices bellow in my mind the same
How do I tell her
She deserved to be sung to
Like she sings to her plants
So their leaves grow strong
How do I tell her
She deserved to catch butterflies
Till she was old and grey
Not after
Now, the pots she cooks with
Are too heavy to bare
And the way she talks about death
Is the way I talk about lunch
I love you abuelita
Please know through everything
Part of how I learned to love
Was you