Pozole Pot

︎︎︎ Elida Silvey

︎ AUG 15, 2022

I feel this well,
in the pit of my stomach

It’s the size of a 12qt pozole pot
               made of flat aluminum sheets, muted
I remember we bought it in Chinatown for 5 bucks
        down by the swap meet one Sunday afternoon spent bobeando.

It’s full of hominy
and pulled pork, roasting
        in the clattering sounds of familiar laughter
and crooning cowboys

mariachis made famous from black and white pictures,
the ones my grandma used to watch
so scandalously enamored
          by their gentlemen’s uniform

I choke up mid-smile remembering the impermanence of what’s ours,
forced to remember

I feel around the surface for something to hold

The ridge of metal shrieks,
so shrill it jolts the aunties
              out of
wolf covered couch seats
into the mouth of a fire-breathing dragon

        a cacophony of chanclas like galloping hooves
rush towards the finish line

an attempt was made to save something or other,
success was unclear

I sit back into the couch,
            stiff as a board
as if I were a doll slotted into the wrong

with plastic edges lifting uncomfortably. I
wonder if they notice this too,

I ask the raw outline of bruised lips with
bejeweled teeth, gnawing incessantly
no answer.

I am never sure which parts of me begin or end
with memory

but I am so often lost in the limbo of the
indefinite that it’s become

my only postcode.

Elida Silvey
is a Mexican-American writer whose work focuses on exploring the edges of emotion, the importance of mundanity in representing love, and the splitting nature of living multiculturally. She self-published a book of poems and photography of her family home in Aguascalientes, Mexico, and has been published in The Horizon Magazine, Soft Qtrly, Sunstroke, and other local publications. You can find more of her work on her Instagram @elida.silvey or via her website refractionsinwater.com.

Also by Elida: Elastic Cold-Cuts