Josefa.

My Grandmother makes the best quipes in town.
One day, deep in thought,
she mixes ground beef, basil, and onion with her hands.
She remembers the bulgar wheat soaking in the fridge
and calms herself by making a mental note of the other ingredients:
Onions. Pepper. Aceite.
She hears her husband on the phone in the living room,
listing off his latest travels:
New York City. Buenos Aires. España.
A knowing laugh follows,
"Ya tu lo sabes."
He hangs up the phone and enters the kitchen while her hands are still
covered in ground meat mix.
He says something about having to book another plane ticket.
She steadies her voice. Where do you want to go next?
At the stove, he lifts up her hair and kisses the side of her neck and says,
"I want to go here,"
kisses her other side,
"and here,"
until cities and continents dissolve into spots on her body.
all this time she thought he had forgotten what she tasted like.
she drops the mounds of meat
lets him lift her by the waist
and just for a moment,
she forgives herself for marrying an atlas.
My Grandmother. She was never the type to let anyone go hungry.