the pupusa is a portrait            of an honest earth:                        the coarse burns continents,            the auroral dough a sea.water joined masa through tumult            & sphered, flattened then crowned,                        filled with meat & milk then smoothed,            heat birthed & bitten.no, the pupusa is an homage            to the laborer’s backhand                        where scars simmer & settle,            strawberry skin browns.sweated flesh crackles on steaming metal,            grease singing smoke loud then sweet over & over,                        flipped & rested, an iris weepy then dry,            ashen islands form & a back stiffens.no, the pupusa is a documentation            of every pecado,                        the taut pink palate            a receipt for indulgence.a sheet of young wood pulp dims,            then an emergence of weighty shadows.                        a sycamore pith rises & splits            & spits a globe of queso.no, the pupusa is a bulging mirror            to this sleepless face. examine                        the wrinkle bowls under each eye & find            another tired eye under another tired eye.the cream sol bulges then sombers,            sunspots & scabs black;                        what can this light nourish            but a body ripe with eonic exhaustion?no, the pupusa is a portrait            of this life, crusting & breaking                        with every lick & tooth, the desire & gift            of jarabe yielding to the shape of a belly.crack open the soft disc egg            & study its ivory thick blood & tender marron,                        stretching like a timeline of grief,            & lap the fresh veins.