Linda Falter

Salsa de la Casa

Me recuerdo Mamacita, hips swinging, 

stacking LPs like tortillas, their rhythms blasting 

from fifty-inch speakers—higher than this kid’s

head and smacking lips—oh man, those chilaquiles! 

So flaming hot your throat closed up. I remember

choked breath, near-death. An instant fear of God.

No me acuerdo, nunca, having turkey 

on Thanksgiving—because—Really?

Why not meat that sizzles? Doused in fire-

kissed tomatoes, roasted garlic, chiles, a squeeze of lime—

flavors that flaunt their colors, dance on bold-tone 

Mexican platters—heaped to over the brim.

Like the zapatito we lived in. We lived 

on Life, it was enough. Every month, Papά cashed

his check: A thin slice to keep the creditors quiet, the rest 

for Mamά—a thick banker’s envelope, fat wad 

of bills—the kind you want—One tap, one turn, 

a locking of eyes, and the dance would begin:

This money is yours, for the food—No, it’s yours!

How can I see you so anxious about the heating oil?—

Take it back, what will we eat?—Ay, Dios mío,

have faith! We can always eat frijoles—

Head to head, back and forth, the sway, the dip 

and the bend—and he could never resist her 

compelling logic in the end. Ay, Papά, eaten 

by worry, stuffed to the gills on pork-bone pozole.

Ay, pobrecito…no, not really.

Song for Mija: In Abuela’s Garden

Since you ask, I will sing of her— 

your grand-mamá—we both are made from her 

mold. Perhaps, then, you will follow: Keep 

the rotten things, push them deep 

in the earth—las uvas viejas—all the better

for their wrinkled skins. Secure 

the tender vine with ribbon-bows.

straighten the leaning arbor. 

Lo mismo, the half-avocado—brown, black—

he is ugly; they are done with him. Ah, 

but his life only sleeps. Cover him well. Watch

the tendril toes begin to stretch, grow cozy 

in their bed. When winter days grow warm, 

cut una manzana for your niñita. Together, take 

the core outside; wait for your miracle.

Listen, I recall a game of hide and seek 

one summer long ago, crawling 

on hands and knees through prickle-canes 

just out the back door—berries! Newly born 

from the ones Abuela tossed to robins 

the spring before. I sat and stole 

the fuzzy red caps—the flavor-burst 

in each tiny thimble! Ay, mijita, you must sow 

with abandon. Trust me. One never knows. 

Did I mention the vine only ever 

gave us sour grapes? No importa. 

The avocado craved the sun, grew lush and fat–

but gave not one avocado. The raspberry canes, 

in a thoughtless burst, overtook all access 

to the back stoop and patio. And the seeds 

gathered in hope of flowers? They were far, 

far too many for the time she had left. I left her 

garden too soon—all but hopeless. While she, 

in the ground, from a brown stone buried there, 

left me apricot blooms. Soft as a cloud, 

bright as a voice within the tired house—Mamá 

lifting her nena from sleep with a kiss:

Good Morning, my little sunshine, Good Morning…

They rise beside her bedroom window: the blooms, the song. 

Do you not see the pink-white skirts? 

Do you not catch their spiced perfume?