Souvenir from Mexico

Papi opened his palm
And offered me a lollipop.
And I, timid as a new-born cactus
Without spears, accepted.
And I took it in my mouth
Without knowing what it was.
It was like my first comunión;
Or those preceding vespers when kids
Would argue its contents: It’s made of bread.
thought Marilyn No, it’s rice. said Nicholas,
whom I most wanted to agree with
Because of my crush but couldn’t
Because the dozens of weekends
Spent in Miami in Tia Chava’s Esquina
Told me that the modest, powdered
Coin held in my palm was an arepa
Like the kind my aunt would press all day
Until her hands writhed. And arepas, I knew,
Were Corn, of course.

The lollipop was a tourist-y thing,
A chunk of fossil
With some kind of worm in the center
And Ididn’tknowwhatelse around it but
IthoughtIknewforsure it was water.

Well, life gave me the answers in the end:
The communion was Jesus’ body,
Somehow; the lollipop was a warning
Of alcohol’s ability to fill the guise of sweetness
Or a metaphor for my sister—
A nasty little thing on the inside
That’s only bearable when drunk—
And bothtimeseitherway I was always the sucker.