Fig-sized red and orange all-year Christmas bulbs
splash their holy light on the plastic-coated tablecloths
and glint against the bottled throats of every brand

of hot sauce — El Yucateco, Tapatio, Dona Maria's
Mole, singing their fiery songs on a shelf that lines the room,
nestled among a hundred ceramic Madonnas —

Tamazula, Cholula and Crystal beside the beatific
faces of the Mother of us all — and still lives of hard
plastic fruit not invented in this country, not even

in the Forties, and so many crosses, empty and occupied,
paintings of Jesus and the Lord. Oh, Bufalo,
Valentina, Tabasco, Habañero, guard the bas-relief

bull's head glowering out of its red velvet frame, bless
the photograph of somebody's mother, and the bluefin
tuna leaping on the wall, river of traffic flowing

past the plate glass, sanctify each hot tortilla,
each yellow plastic basket lined with greasy paper,
watch over the customers tonight as they bend

their heads to quesadillas and burritos, Del Fuerte,
if you are listening, carry us safely into tomorrow,
we will praise you by the artificial light of every

electrified tabletop candle, Oh gods of the spoon-shaped,
the smooth-skinned, searing chiles, comfort us —
keep us warm.

from 88, Fall 2004