Marlene Woods

Molcajete

When I got married,
my mother’s inheritance to me
was the pestle and mortar she bought
when she married my father. 

Now I know, that she gave it to me
with much love, shaped by years
of grinding salsas, history, experiences,
some rage, and joys as well. 

Now I know, that without ingredients,
it is full of traditions,
recipes inscribed in my heart,
and marriage advice
I failed to understand at the time.

Now I know, that when I make 
a rather spicy red salsa
is because it includes a bit of rage,
perhaps brief, but enough
to grind with more force. 

Now I know, that when I make 
green guacamole
and it is soft and delicious,
it is because I am happy
dancing to my own tune
thankful for having inherited
from my ancestors
their good seasoning and excellent taste.

What is your inheritance?

Avocado

I start by feeling you
and end by choosing you,
I start by opening you
and end by devouring you.

I love your symmetry
and your heart,
that dark island 
forever holding you as one.

I take a moment to admire you all
before consuming you whole,
for I absolutely love that green,
the color instrumental to your being.

Such color causes a sweet delirium in me 
before I bite I can taste you in my mouth,
but I must promptly act
before you turn as dark as your heart.