A Comer

Omar Bonilla

how chatty these tacos de lengua are,
proudly telling tales of ancient rivers
already so rich and ripe with fish
that miracles instead took the form of Huitzilopochtli
pointing the nomads towards golden eagles
being fed snakes atop cacti,
the gracious gift of home in a Valley
verdant and vast
and unmarred by conquest.

how delicious this oral history of they
who carved cosmic light into stone
before the cross had a chance to cast
its corruptive shadow across the continents
before inquisitive attitudes gave way to Inquisition.

how lively the rest of this gossipy platter
of arrozes and arepas and pupusas and tajadas,
all sorts of assorted sagas placed family style before me—
yet my eyes are drawn to the crumb-filled gaps
where lost stories ought to be.

how bittersweet this blend of deicide and pride
sitting on my own mixed tongue,
each unnervingly palatable bite a consequence
of the good brought
and the tragedy wrought.