Your headwrap is vibrant; green, red, yellow, white
all popping off the plastic in a beautiful array–
–your eyes so full of joy.
Doña Pepa, you stand strong
on the red wrapping of your sweet treat.
I pick you up from my Mamama’s mickey mouse
box. You have travelled a long time to see me
Above the Andes mountains, over the Caribbean,
passing 15 states– you must be tired.
Doña Pepa, you were created for one of the largest parades
in this world. Señor de los Milagros, Christ of Miracles.
And every time Mamama sneaks you into my
hand after I’ve emptied my box I think it must be
another miracle you performed.
I can tell you’re not new. You’ve aged. When I open you the
chocolate has cracked; it falls apart in my hands. The colorful
beads escape and roll off into corners of my home.
But age does not sour your sweetness.
I have other treats but San Jose can only dream
to melt in your mouth the way that you do, sublime craves
your crunch–you are richer than any twix, or kit kat,
or milky way. Better than anything I have found in these States.
Doña Pepa, I don’t have to wait for my Mamama
so you can visit me again. Amazon will
ship you to my home for 8 bucks.
But reuniting with you in a stuffed envelope
is not what I want. I want my Mamama to
take you out of her suitcase, I want to
unwrap her mickey mouse box, I want
Mamama’s rough hands
stuffing your loud plastic
into my school bag.
I’ll wait a little longer, another two years,
another three, I’ll want until I can see you again
You and my Mamama,
my Doña Pepa.