These salty pressed corn flour
cook with a heat enough to melt
may caring soul to a brightness
of a moon face in midst of night
color me with salsa, dip me to soak
without getting soft from crispiness
my lips beg for hot chili; burning
mild; crackling down my tongue; great
juice dripping on my shirt; wasted
come wipe it off with your finger
i see your smile; go kiss it to me
you made my moment, very few i say
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem