Walls are ablaze with murals red, yellow, green, and brown.
Torches march on the graves’ fallow ground
and glistening streets drink the sweet October rain.
Skeletons’ shadows dance the walls.
Little banshees call from behind living, frightful masks.
The night is wild with black guitars.
The festival of Dia de los Muertos is here.
Banish the fear of death. Taste the sweet sugar skull.
The dead are drunk in rum-soaked ground.
Papa Ghede’d eyes reflect the sparkling array
as a billion dead stars shine down.
Tomorrow we die anyway!
I ask her if she would like a tuna sandwich?
“Lord in heaven, no!”
Her inflection and phraseology are a spot on
duplication of her mother.
“When we were poor, we ate tuna fish and
those Chinese noodles with the repugnant
flavor packets twice a week.
I’ll never eat another bite of tuna as
long as I breathe.”
She says it with the venom of
a rattlesnake bite.
She was never poor.
In my family, it was liver.
My mother’s second cousin was a butcher.
We ate liver, at least, once a week.
Contrary to “Miss Tuna Fish”,
I love liver.
Fry up some beef liver with onions
and that brown gravy and I’m in heaven.
try and find liver in your grocery store.
I “double dog dare you.”