Writing a Letter to Momma about my Visit to Progresso, Mexico

The obliterated place is equal parts destruction
and creation.
Cheryl Strayed

for my Mother, after the strokes 

Here, there is an abundance of you: colorful wares clinking, 
cooking oil sizzling into breezeless streets, and lively guitars 
strummed and sung over. I see you lean 

a rod of silver bracelets against the brick wall beside me 
and grin for the pretty lady?, watch your fingers rove faux
leather keychains shaped like tiny shoes 

while a sister eats warm candy beside you, notice
you peering out at me from behind dirty hands lifted
toward my face but not to ask me to feel sorry, only helpful

today. I give you a quarter, move on. Momma, 
you have taught me, slowly, to know I am never a savior.
Later, I ask a woman for one taco for one dollar 

at a makeshift kitchen—worn tent flung over metal poles, 
a few plastic tables and chairs, the rollaway stove
thickly coated with grease—and it’s you again in pink

and blue striped skirt strolling to the chopping block 
to fashion three piles of white, yellow, and green,
dashing shredded pollo with pepper and chili in a skillet

over a flickering hot flame before handing the finished bundle
to me on a plate, a lime halved beside. I squeeze 
the juice unto the taco, children all around me selling

small packages of gum. You would have bought two or three, 
or seven if you were here. I buy only one from the little girl
chirping at my shoulder to whom you would have also mouthed

thank you holding it to your chest 
like a heartbeat. I hold it to my chest like a heartbeat, hear
you rise up from my throat to say thank you.

De nada she answers. Tomorrow, wintergreen will burst
between my teeth, the sound of your enjoyment, a memory—
a flavor I will write about like something I can love.