Poem Jan 2011

Untranslatable Taste

La comelóna smells the warm dreamy plate of rice,

beans, and chicken braised in tomato sauce knowing

that taste buds are wired straight to the dopamine

connections in the brain, the same spot where nicotine

dances, morphine sings, and cocaine crackles a hearty

howl. This is not gluttony or hunger. This is love on a plate.

The taste, the flavor, a zest for life. El gusto. Gusto

for life and language. Sometimes there is only one

way to say how we savor hands rolling masa into dough,

how the dough rounds into tortillas, how the tortillas puff

when ready. It is labor, the work done to survive, a job

accomplished so that we can step outside and praise

the sun caught pink in a strip of ethereal clouds. She is as

Spanish dictates. A nomenclature. A guilt free gourmand.

La comelóna picks up the fork as cheese strings itself

tight. When full with love, neurons fire over synapses.

On April 22nd, 2010, Emelia Guzman’s brain irradiated

and glowed through an MRI scan. First, she scanned

pictures of sex, then of the Virgin Mary, finally

she took in that mouthful and a rainbow of lights

cascaded through her frontal lobe. She swore an Angel

descended offering her marigolds, orchids, and pearls.