Arroz.
Y’know, rice.
The kind Abuela makes
In her busted oja
With crunched pegao (or concón)
Arroz.
Paired with
habichuelas
maiz
pollo
guineo
or huevo.
Arroz.
Broke folk food
Simple enough to cook
And to screw up.
Arroz.
The national passtime
Of the Latino/a/e
Even moreso than
¡Beisbol!
Arroz.
Arroz con gandules.
Arroz con dulce.
Arroz con mas arroz
(por favor?)
Arroz blanco.
Arroz amarillo.
Arroz moro.
Arroz rojo.
Arroz verde.
Long-grain,
like indigenous histories
Medium-grain,
like speaking Español ou Português
Short-grain,
like our memory
when we decide
¡no soy moreno!
Sweet rice,
like my Abuelita’s lullabies
Wild rice,
like our all our tia Marias
My rice,
takes more than half the plate.
Arroz
unlike Tainos, Aztecs, and Mayans
Did not start in
Puerto Rico
La Republica Dominicana
Cuba
Peru
Mexico
Nicaragua
Brazil
El Salvador
Argentina
Bolivia
Ecuador
Uruguay
Venezuela
Honduras
Guatemala
Panama
Paraguay
Our rice came from
Africa’s Diaspora
or
The Asian Persuasion
El pequeno grano
Traveled the world
And has been forced to feed
Like the enslaved Black ancestors
Tio Leonicio runs away from
Arroz never complains
Letting us dye her
Whatever color we like
And scoop greedy spoonfuls
Into our loud-ass mouths
I’d like to be like arroz mongoyao
Sticking to my grains
Even though they call me
Mushy.
But I’m often like pesky raw grains
That refuse to cook evenly
And fill chismosas’ mouths with discomfort
That we hope
will finally shut them up.
Mi gente
Mis hermanos, hermanas
everyone in between
and outside the pot
Somos arroz, no?
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