Hot Tamales

There were two tamales
boiling in the pot on the stove.
Leathery brown hands had
carefully wrapped
their grainy skin
in pure white paper
and tied them about the waist.

I remember slow pleasure
bubbling beneath my surface,
a simmer,
an hourglass form
being cooked to perfection.

There are some things
a lady must not do.

My grandmother hated
those sultry summer days.

I remember young nights
of devouring the morsels
made just for me,
staining their bodies with
sinful chili.

There are times
when all the world is divided
by that piece of twine
my grandmother tied about
their waists
split cleanly down
crown and foot,
parted around the middle.

I remember the soft
murmuring of the water
as it caressed-
the lunch to readiness.
Carefully, carefully.
So often it is easy
to separate the fragile exterior
from its core
and ruin the whole.

There is no regret.