Masa

she moves so fast she is motionless
--Ilya Kaminsky

The hum-lull of a quiet house in a cool morning hour,
Mami lies in the maca, in the backyard, hums a ballad,
her legs dangle off just enough to keep her swinging.

“Which song is that?” “I don’t remember”
the notes hang in the air between us
like a held breath: Mami hums

yes here, as in childhood,
she never strays too far from her life
a long day from yesterday she made

tortillas from scratch, working the masa with her hands,
rolling balls of dough, flattening them with the press
between two circles of Wonder bread plastic

heating them up on a flat skillet with bare fingers until
they puff up, hot air billowing out and softening
between the dishtowels. I draw a line between the melody

She untangles tomatoes from their vines, rinses
them off with water and takes a gaping bite
to see her, over sixty, humming a long-forgotten

love song, Mami who keeps Spanish on her tongue
and English in her pockets for safekeeping.


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