Abuelita’s Kitchen
The old cleaver goes up but not down.
Tip toe curiosity raises me asking for more—feathers
“Get out of the cocina!”
The see-through curtain shuts hard.
Turkey legs don’t outrun the apron and blade today.
The maid clutches a shaking body
presenting the neck for my Abuela
I hear the bang of a judge’s mallet—metal to wood
and the bubbling cauldron spills lava-water
sizzling the bloody ground.
A drunken pavo without a head
takes the eternal nap in a pot
full of criminal vegetables from bad neighborhoods
I could smell the garlic and violence.
The day before, I met the alcoholic turkey outside,
rope tied to its foot, metal bowl full of grain
and a pot of alcohol posing as a pot of water, “Why?”
“To give the pavo sabor,” Abuela said.
I tried playing a game with him.
“No molestes al pavo!” I wasn’t bothering him.
Handwoven tablecloth set
“La comida is ready.”
We wait for the last room in the hall to open.
The chattering stops like crickets for a lion
when Abuelo comes out.
He sits ceremoniously, hands together like the pope.
A prayer by my Abuela. She serves him coke from his bottle.
His private bottle, the one we all covet while drinking agua.
I can see the murder scene from my seat
Abuela’s kitchen has poor light
to hide all the horrors that go on there
blood, feathers, boiling gut stenches.
I feel a burning stare—my father
You’re not moving until you finish!
I better close my eyes and eat
but the turkey head resurfaces to look at me.
Birthday Omelet
The cocina was a forbidden temple
entry cost for children—the right age.
My curious bones peeked
but guards at the entrance,
armed with aprons and spatulas
stopped me from going in.
Unwelcome, I’d only hear whispers from the inside,
romantic love affairs, stories of infidelity or
warnings about not crossing the patio door,
demons that come out of the sewer grating,
a nun that haunted the house
because my grandma hid a single grey bone
from her diseased body.
My mother’s birthday was the bridge
between forbidden and allowed.
I entered the mysterious sanctum,
the place—older than I imagined
stickier than I imagined
dirtier than I imagined.
Two eggs for mal de ojo made an omelet that day
filled with every condiment that smelled good
paprika, salt, oregano
balance act on the stool, before adding them,
my father’s smile and shaking head,
my disregarding child hand.
Bamboo tray holding eggs, café and jugo
My dad said, “Let her see your card.”
She puts her food down to read.
The pride in my masterpiece knew
that the blue squiggles were genius.
I grew taller and got access to the temple
no supervision, made breakfast
The bamboo tray was missing a card this time
her eyes search for it
“Feliz Cumpleaños, I got you this.”
I hand her a few damp twenty-dollar bills,
her hand grabs them in slow motion,
a quick tear falls, for the missing card
like the bone my grandma hid.
Juan Luzuriaga was born in Guayaquil, Ecuador, and immigrated to the U.S. in 2000. He has a B.A. in English and writing from UC Merced. His interest lies in exploring the connection with his ancestors through writing. He teaches poetry in prisons and at California Poets in the Schools. His work has been published in Cholla Needles, The Merced County Times, The Vernal Pool, Matchbox Magazine and Poetry Breakfast.
The old cleaver goes up but not down.
Tip toe curiosity raises me asking for more—feathers
“Get out of the cocina!”
The see-through curtain shuts hard.
Turkey legs don’t outrun the apron and blade today.
The maid clutches a shaking body
presenting the neck for my Abuela
I hear the bang of a judge’s mallet—metal to wood
and the bubbling cauldron spills lava-water
sizzling the bloody ground.
A drunken pavo without a head
takes the eternal nap in a pot
full of criminal vegetables from bad neighborhoods
I could smell the garlic and violence.
The day before, I met the alcoholic turkey outside,
rope tied to its foot, metal bowl full of grain
and a pot of alcohol posing as a pot of water, “Why?”
“To give the pavo sabor,” Abuela said.
I tried playing a game with him.
“No molestes al pavo!” I wasn’t bothering him.
Handwoven tablecloth set
“La comida is ready.”
We wait for the last room in the hall to open.
The chattering stops like crickets for a lion
when Abuelo comes out.
He sits ceremoniously, hands together like the pope.
A prayer by my Abuela. She serves him coke from his bottle.
His private bottle, the one we all covet while drinking agua.
I can see the murder scene from my seat
Abuela’s kitchen has poor light
to hide all the horrors that go on there
blood, feathers, boiling gut stenches.
I feel a burning stare—my father
You’re not moving until you finish!
I better close my eyes and eat
but the turkey head resurfaces to look at me.
Birthday Omelet
The cocina was a forbidden temple
entry cost for children—the right age.
My curious bones peeked
but guards at the entrance,
armed with aprons and spatulas
stopped me from going in.
Unwelcome, I’d only hear whispers from the inside,
romantic love affairs, stories of infidelity or
warnings about not crossing the patio door,
demons that come out of the sewer grating,
a nun that haunted the house
because my grandma hid a single grey bone
from her diseased body.
My mother’s birthday was the bridge
between forbidden and allowed.
I entered the mysterious sanctum,
the place—older than I imagined
stickier than I imagined
dirtier than I imagined.
Two eggs for mal de ojo made an omelet that day
filled with every condiment that smelled good
paprika, salt, oregano
balance act on the stool, before adding them,
my father’s smile and shaking head,
my disregarding child hand.
Bamboo tray holding eggs, café and jugo
My dad said, “Let her see your card.”
She puts her food down to read.
The pride in my masterpiece knew
that the blue squiggles were genius.
I grew taller and got access to the temple
no supervision, made breakfast
The bamboo tray was missing a card this time
her eyes search for it
“Feliz Cumpleaños, I got you this.”
I hand her a few damp twenty-dollar bills,
her hand grabs them in slow motion,
a quick tear falls, for the missing card
like the bone my grandma hid.
Juan Luzuriaga was born in Guayaquil, Ecuador, and immigrated to the U.S. in 2000. He has a B.A. in English and writing from UC Merced. His interest lies in exploring the connection with his ancestors through writing. He teaches poetry in prisons and at California Poets in the Schools. His work has been published in Cholla Needles, The Merced County Times, The Vernal Pool, Matchbox Magazine and Poetry Breakfast.
