santos scribes

she sits forward, kneeling to dip a powdered piece of puffed pirate booty into a cup of thick strawberry skyr. just forty years ago the choice was government cheese or powdered milk; it’s not a wonder i went without, often. nothing good comes from bricked cheese that reeks of its cardboard box and plastic or milk that requires water and stirring. ‘snack time!’ she sings. she’s happy now, loves food in all sorts of strange and unexpected configurations: scrambled eggs dipped in florida orange juice, crispy coconut shrimp drug through muddy puddles of ketchup and steak; lots and lots of tiny, thinly sliced pieces of perfectly seasoned colorado beef. right now, she’s dragging a limp bamboo straw first through her yogurt and then across her teeth and tongue- it isn’t enough to taste the food, benefit from its caloric index, she wants to feel it.. thick on her lips, dusty there in her soft hand, between her fingertips. and why shouldn’t she? be a child, let to experience more than just one breath of her existence. the bamboo straw has transformed into a paint brush- dipped first in the pale pink palette of her curdled milk and then smeared gently across the surface of her powdery puff. she hums softly now, a song about a t-rex she knows

‘are you gonna eat that baby?’
‘just a second!’

more singing and painting, a ceremonious sneeze- it all covers her masterpiece, steeps fully in her attention, her care
and then with a generous crunch, starts toward her belly

‘mama, can i watch a show?’
‘are you ready to get cleaned up?’
‘but i just gotta finish my painting’

somewhere, just now while the sun was climbing quietly over my shoulder
toward a blue march sky, her hunger turned into art–

the alchemy and the ache stop me cold;
like i have nothing and everything all at once.