Town of Frijoles

In the town of frijoles,

men eat their meals without

washing their hands, wanting

to bless their mothers’ food

with soil from the fields.

In the town of frijoles,

boys beat on hollow pots,

the last wiping of their sides

with a piece of tortilla as

holy a moment as taking

the wafer in church.

In the town of frijoles,

women undress to keep

their babies warm, stories

whispered into bald heads

revealed as poems decades

later, when it is early.

In the town of frijoles,

old men cry for their

fathers and mothers,

tombstone ranches dotting

the night moon where

the pinto aromas extend

beyond the bowl of the sun.