Eulogy for the Cantina on Chapel St. that’s transformed into another bank
I feel god in this Taco Bell tonight:
Cheese, beans, rice, the witching hour
of missing someone. My mother
liked to cook with the worst kind of flour.
My father snuck sips of sweating drinks
clutched in my sister’s little fingers. This
is the spot to lean into a table of alma mater
jackets and bask in the humidity
of frying dough. We are all here
for the same reasons, aching toward
what we desire most: a drunken gaze,
shaking the winter from our hair,
remembering a mother’s taco shells
and refusing to wipe away the grease.
Source: Poetry (July/August 2024)