Last Photograph Of My Parents
By Ruben Quesada
San José, Costa Rica
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.
Copyright © by the owner.
