At the table I watched his
trimmed black mustache wiggle
as he spoke.
His ranchera music,
filling hallways and cars,
I sat bloating with rhythm.
My father said chiles grew sweet on the
mountains in Mexico,
his vowels
leafy cilantro, and onion
the chunky pudding of avocado,
or rather the coconut candy he bought me
striped green, white, and red.
Years later,
my father long moved out,
Spanish
came out to a boy
over dinner
mi amor, mi corazón,
my love, my heart.
Warm as a flour tortilla in
the palm, snuggled to me like
the black sombrero
my father placed firmly on my head laughing at
how it swallowed me.
Parting, I left the boy at the doorstep
grasping at my words
eating the watercolor sound
adiós,
mi amor,
adiós.