At kitschy Mexican restaurants,
ones without musicians but walls
covered in black velvet hats playing mariachi
muzak and a bar ringed in Corona ropes,
you’ll find enchiladas for Americans.
Served tubed with tasteless meat, white
tortilla borders, flour fenced against rivers
of genetically engineered gravy.
Growing up, our family’s enchiladas
were geological features,
dusky layered mesas
corn tortillas, flash fried,
dunked in hot springs of New Mexico chile sauce,
dusted with onion snows,
finished with an eruption of cheddar cheese.
Four ingredients, never too poor for four.
Us, the gringo In-Chill-Yada grandchildren,
got a cup of milk, a fried egg, white
bread with butter or lettuce, iceberg
to temper the heat of our wedge.
A Trivial Pursuit pie slice, brown for culture,
won for answering truths
like why five brown daughters
would marry white flour tortilla men.
