Poetry: You Are What You Eat

I am my abuela's congri.

My body is made up mainly of

White rice, boiled in water too

Hot to touch.

But I am also

Black beans, protein bite that costs

99 cents a can at the local bodega.

My body and my soul were thrown

Into a pressure cooker thanks to your

Hungry hands and watering tongue that

Hurriedly drops leftover ham

Bones to give me flavor I seem to

Lack, en acuerdo con tus taste buds.

I am seasoned to near perfection, garlic clove

Ditched gracefully in my midst while

Salt and pepper are dashed tragically from

The heights of your finger tips.

I'm caught in a bed of steam until you

Release the pressure and I am

Screaming and whistling at the top of

My lungs, because I am not black bean soup or

One of the girls from Mambo #5 or even

Jenny from the Block. I am

Sitting at the kitchen table,

Licking my lips with my fork in hand.