You must smell like onions
But be as sweet as one too
Hair nets are not just for cholos
No yolos or dolos or polos
Just holas and hellos
When days turned into nights that turned into mornings you were there
Looking out into the streets with us as we trekked across our misty universe
Like graffiti artists that just painted the whole city while you were asleep
Trail of salsa stains in our wake.
When we started making masa and I was delirious behind the wheel, yelling at every little thing, you told me to care.
You told me to care.
And I listened.
You’ve been the tasting spoon
The measuring stick
The “is the sauce ready or is it too soon?” I look at you,
Every flavor I turn to you and ask “es bueno?” And you always say yes.
Or you tell me no until it’s time to say yes and I get it right.
I always see you at the bus stop and I say get in.
Then we ride small talking in Spanish but saying deep things in between the broken language in words that aren’t words.
In the silence.
You’re fingers smell like onions and jalapeños.
Your smile puts a tickle to my nose.
What you mean to Kogi, Los Angeles, and Orange County
From our head to our toes
One person peeling the skins for so many to be happy as they peel away the paper on their burrito to be happy in their skins and say FTW!
You are forever my wind.