Friday, January 14, 2011

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.

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