My hands are getting softer like my mother’s.
She said—Look.
This is how you knead the masa. You fold the dough into itself.
But I bought cold tortillas wrapped in plastic.
She said—Look.
This is how you make fideo.
You know it is finished when the flesh is so soft it falls away from the bone.
But I tossed frozen chickens into my cart.
Mother, you have kneaded me,
folded me into your heart and body.
And to lose you now feels as if my flesh is falling away from the bone.
