Maria, guardian of a thousand year tradition
with your ageless olive face
and lips ajar just so,
I am eating chilli tortillas from the bag
and thinking of you
exhorting us to discover hidden secrets
with your lips apart as if to speak
(though in this guise you are always silent).
I think of you, Maria,
and my mouth grows chilli-hot.
You emerge from darkness
and from smoke, your hair
gathering to a halo.