July 3, 2015CuscatlánZoë Anglesey

In this smallfry country

pollo does not mean deep-

fried but unplucked and alive

on the back of a boy’s weaving bike

or on the head of a señora.

Crated, flush to a pickup’s gate,

eggs arrive fresh at market

chauffeured by drivers known for

skimming drop-offs, who swerve

potholes in mud-washed streets.

Sometimes eggs are thrown,

give body to a painter’s tempera

or as snacks anchor purses

of women stitching demi bras

near the dormant Izalco.

Up to them, grandmothers stew

chicken, drain-flavored broth—

the secret for silken masa—

fill tamales with tasty odd bits

and swaddle each in banana leaves.

A stooped woman wears them

over shoulders and head, rain or not.

Ten years at crater’s edge, she

points skyward, blurts out a truck

flying spilled a crate of bombs.