after La Sonora Ponceña
Six weeks pregnant with our
second, Crisely reclines. I note
her spine at ease as I belt
out a refrain from the LP
her papi would sing
while twirling & guiding
his pregnant cariño
all through the eighties
& nineties & past
the crisp
arepa on the stove
before suddenly
dipping
low & moving right
by moving left by moving
west, following
that timeless recipe
of stability from under
the adobe roof
in which the kitchen knew
only measuring cups
that counted from one
to eight & tonight, the stiff
& upright sweat their tired torsos
into a tenderness. She massages
the green & I chop
the cebollín wondering
why my mouth whimpers
for this clave pepper
piano tambor olla cebolla
coro tres cuatro spoons
bien full of montuno salado
arroz con bacalao habichuelas
pasteles agua! fuego
red-orange-blue-tooth
stereo
typically coursing
& streaming & pumping
every drop of blood
& sabor towards
the placenta.
