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July 2016, vol 12 no 2

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Rebeca Lois Lucret


The waitress placed the steamy dish in front of me. It landed loud like thunder on the hardwood table. A lifetime of Mami's kitchen and that little girl settling before me. Yesterday's girl. She was removing the yuca from her pink bowl again. She never did like yuca (or better told, she never liked the way it looked) and the bananas were a disappointment too. They weren't sweet like the other ones she deep fries on Saturdays. They weren't cut into those small sacramental pieces of heaven that melted on your tongue. These just floated like logs with no real purpose. One and two. These too she removed. Only corn, carrots and chicken left.

Her spoon moved and tapped each piece in its sea of hot lava, stirring alive the aroma of a childhood. Warm like her mother's arms, the scent rose from under her and caressed her pointy chin. This is like Mami she thought.

field workers
bent beneath the sun –
summer stew