Stains of Spanish Grease

I can roll two empanadas
on a pan with the help of wrinkly elbows.
Beside me are four builds of fat with
mouths. In the back of the restaurant
they dance like the sun will shrink
into a thin sliced tomato,
they cut with knives and stain green
juice on aprons. They give kisses to wounds made
by hot irons
and press their sweaty cheeks after rolling the last empanada.
Sometimes beef laughs at me and
I spill orange juice, we tend to
sing la cucaracha in fuzzy slippers before
the thin sliced tomato is now a white crisp cracker.
After six,
mami tells me how much she loves
the music
and papi's eyes are following her
by the beat of a Cuban drum.
they work their feet around broken vases
without looking at the floor
and she slices every rhythm
with her hips effortlessly, while I am
forcing a handful of meat
in a half moon, watching it dive into a frying pan
and crisp the outer edges
to eat with love

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