ABDOMEN

At 10:22 a.m. I visit

the White Elephant Flea Market

in east Houston and eat a torta

filled with pollo, lechuga,

queso y aguacate, and 2 hours later

I drive to Emiliano’s Cantina, drink a shot

of Jose Cuervo, but when the bartender asks,

“¿quieres otra?” I shake my head because

I have a long day ahead of me, so I pay,

and leave a $10 tip for their service, then

3 miles down the road I arrive

at Memo’s Record Shop,

though I don’t buy records nowadays

since grandma Guadalupe died, 

I funnel through each row

and find Juan Gabriel, the singer

she listened to while dusk cusped the jaw line of earth;

eventually I end up in downtown during the evening

and pass by a food truck where a viejito sells elote,

but I don’t have much of an appetite

without my hermanito, Miguel, constantly

asking me if he could have some,

still, I get one, and admire the chile, sparkling

like rubies, rimmed around the cob; no later

than 7:00 p.m do I exit John Ralston Rd, park at Fiesta, 

walk to aisle 5, and grab Nescafé,

the same coffee I tried finding for mamá at 8 years old,

but got lost and came across a cashier 

who called her through the intercom by the register;

when I get home, I turn on the stove,

and watch the flames stomaching

the base of a pan and rippling noodles

that go por ahí, por allá, donde queria, above

water and salt.