The sizzled shhs of tortillas
grill on the pan after the loud
patting of the hands kneading masa,
as if they were the small slap of
los sandalias right below my butt.
I am breaking apart each and every
piece and it looks so easy, the way
my housekeeper dips her hands in
water, the Miami sunlight glinting
on her wrists while she smoothens
out the moisture—es asi—folding
it again into a perfect round shape.
Home in the hem of my shirt, takes
the same form in the humidity,
melts away in the clear pigmented
cielo, mi cielo—Quiero pancakes,
I say aloud, the flattened oval a
reminder of something sweeter.
Mi cielo turns into frustration,
No more cielo for you, my
housekeeper exclaims, and
she was right because after
that moment, the sky turned
into tormenta, an overcast chaos.