By Ruben Quesada

Tortillas clap against floured palms,
steaming bowls of avena, frijoles
black as the rumbling sky,
arroz con pollo simmers. Against the kitchen
 
window, small clouds rise. Papá dances
to the electric beat of the marimba,
his cheek bristly against Mamá’s
neck; his thick fingers sift
 
through her wispy hair. I am nowhere
to be found, neither in the foreground nor
background. Today I sit in this chair,
in the corner of my house, covered
with a poncho of blue flowers,
looking out at asphalt roads overflowing
with rain, fogging the glass. Along the road,
steam rises like blotchy fingerprints.

• Living
• Relationships

Poet Bio

Ruben Quesada grew up in South Central Los Angeles, Hollywood, and Long Beach. He earned an MFA in creative writing and writing for the performing arts at the University of California, Riverside, and a PhD in English at Texas Tech University. A former assistant professor of English at Eastern Illinois University, Quesada founded Logan’s Run Reading Series, Chicago’s only salon-style series featuring local and national Latino poets & writers. See More By This Poet

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