rosa's mole negro con pollo
tempts us like
the crucifixion of sinful saints:
the paradox of a chile's purity
mingled with the whoredom of chocolate,
we want it to burn down our throats
like a cascade of smoldering coals,
at the same time,
we want to punish this essence
smearing it around the mirrors of our plates,
reflecting our warring wishes
to be both good and bad
in the very same swallow.
rosa earned her green card,
su boleto a libertad,
by permitting some wrinkled old gringo
to enter the temple of her vagina
in some peeled-plaster motel room,
on the highway outside of puebla.
the faked ecstasy of her moaning,
as mosquitoes flashed their sting-bulbs
like winged paparazzi.
the wrinkled old gringo is dead now,
and her ecstasy is finally real.
rosa paid for this comedor in cash,
stirring vats of mole negro con pollo,
getting revenge on all the gringos
whose heartburn
is habit forming.
