“Mira Mija”

Hands dive in

To the creamy colored masa

Muscles clenched as you churn 

The repetition like a dance

 

Pat, Pat, Pat

Yours is a cloud

A cloud of corn, salt, and water

A full circle, flattened by your thumbs

 

Sizzle!

I drop it in

Hot

Burning the tip of my finger

You lay yours down smooth

A perfect landing

 

We wait

I rub the crumbs 

falling down across the Maseca splattered table

I touch your fingers

Soft, with each wrinkle becoming a canyon

In the silky brown mountains of your hands

 

Slap

Piled up they look like steps

Steps leading me back

To the mujeres who came before 

 

Thick

The mantequilla is painted on

Add a rain of salt

Yours is drizzled with chile

Too picante for me!

 

Listo!

You let me sneak a bite

A delectable mouthful

Del sur

Opening wide welcoming 

The warmth of our people, 

The communion to my heart 

 

Back then it was me, you, and the tortillas

 

Now it's just me, 

And the tortillas