Daniella Navarro

Neruda

Some may call your language spicy, or at least that's what my friend says when I say words like "taqueria" or "tortilla", like the words may burn his mouth if he even attempts a correct pronunciation. Yet, I don’t understand how words can be spicy if I never tear with peppers, if they caress me like that aunt that has always been a bit too overweight . . . she makes the best buñuelos, so she's home anyway. Like my grandma handling the rolling pin, sure and unquestioning, making round tortillas even though her eyesight has left her. See, some things are just known by feel, my momma don't have to know where you at for the chancla to bull's-eye. So it's not spicy, just otherness, an unfamiliarity that's worth the wait. I am not, however, referring to the chancla. Stay unfamiliar with that. Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto, you're perfection people have to work at understanding if it is not their native tongue. A perfection I will not allow others to relegate to novelty for its seductive sound that pulls them in and leaves them panting by the end.

heat entering through windows –
consumed by written words