Ode to Frijoles (Redux)

Mark - I think you are right. I think this is better set in verse. I reread "Ode to Salt" by Pablo before revising, below.

  

My father was a good man

maybe even a great man

but he unraveled slowly

like an old wool sweater that got

snagged on the sharp edge of life,

straining ever since he landed

in Miami, a refugee from Cuba

with a coarse black mustache

who never quite fit in

never quite felt at home.

But my father could do one thing

that helped him forget where he was

and helped him remember who he was

and where he came from. He could cook

frijoles negros, Cuban-style.

Primero

first

sauté the onions

and don’t hurry them

let them turn golden

like the tropical sun.

Then

entonces

add the peppers

a little fire for the soul.

The frijoles too

must cook slowly —

three days, as many days

as Jesus was in the grave.

You’ll know when the frijoles are done

because you will not want anything else

for breakfast, lunch or dinner

when you first begin to smell

the bubbling, rich aroma

of God’s black frijoles.

You will run into the kitchen  

and you will beg me: Papi, please,

may I have the frijoles now?

And I will do exactly what my mother did

and my grandmother did, and all

the mothers and grandmothers of Cuba

as far back as anyone can remember.

I will pick you up in my arms and I will hand you

the special wooden spoon that I have used

to stir and stir and stir the frijoles

and I will say, Sí, mi querida, 

mi corazón. Yes, my darling, my love.

Take and eat. I have made this

all

for

you.