Adina Cassal
Ode to the Steam from My Darjeeling Tea
Sensual
like an evening
watching the sea-
divers in Acapulco,
bodies merging with
the sky and
entering waves
that meet them
half way to the darkness
and the mystery
of a planet beneath
a planet, where
bioluminescent life
moves at the rhythm
of an old Bossa Nova
played by a slow
man with missing teeth
in a favela not far
from the shores of Rio and
from young women showing
bodies meant for mating
attracting weary bureaucrats
on a stroll while waiting
for world summits
and ceremonial drinks
to be drunk
across the ocean
where peasants with sparkling
sweat between skin and
mid-morning sun
move supple long fingers
plucking tea leaves
on fields wet from monsoons -
water now inevitably
rising to its
origin.
Marraqueta Blues
Summers meant marraquetas –
a vacation full of bread:
the humble, crunchy crust
golden like sand under sunlight,
hugging a soft core,
white as mountaintops
and inviting like a Sunday plaza
ready to be invaded
by children, traviesos and determined.
The bread of the Chilean:
of the campesino growing fruit,
of miners in the arid North
and fishermen in the windy South,
of nanas taking care of children,
trusty maestros fixing everything
from faucets, to walls, to lights;
of poets selling their words on sidewalks,
of the taxi drivers and bus riders,
of circus magicians on crowded streets,
and of every soccer fan
ready to celebrate a victory.
The marraqueta –
trusty antidote
to the daily knowledge of earthquakes,
served at breakfast with coffee
and queso blanco,
at lunch as a companion
to the tomatoes, corn and onions
of the ensalada chilena,
at evening onces with spreads
of avocados, eggs, cheese, jams,
and anything
the kitchen gods might imagine,
and at any time
a treat as dependable
as grandmothers’ stories.
I grew up so far from marraquetas,
wandering through islands,
palmeras, selvas,
and tropical rains
that gave shape to my feet
and wings to my words;
I learned to eat and love
tortillas, harepas and tostones,
but summers – those summer
vacations when time stopped,
when mountains stretching longer
than a warm embrace
gave way to seas, larger
and colder than a goodbye –
summers meant marraquetas.
