Haiti at Tomatillo

I have been slow to put into words the disaster that is Haiti— until we received a difficult call on our way to a Mexican restaurant. Somehow the call and the ordinary moments that followed converged; I didn't eat much supper but rather watched my family and opened my hands to a poem...

"Haiti at Tomatillo"

Roasted winter
squash and black
bean burrito, with
cilantro pesto sauce

sounded good,
promised maybe,
so I ordered

but it wasn't what
I hoped it would be;
my littlest daughter
poured tomatillo salsa

on rice, lettuce crisp,
her eyes brimmed
hot tears, chin quivered,

"It's spicy," she said,
"the bad thing is you
can't unspice it." And
I remembered his

words in answer to
the call, just as we'd
been looking to turn

onto Cedar Street.
It seemed to me he
was meeting the voice
on the other end

with a mirror tone
of soft muted sorrow,
"They found the body?"

and I imagined his friend's
face on the line nodding
yes, black eyes melting, yes
black like the eyes of

the hostess here, black
like forever. My husband
now lifting a red plastic

cover, noting with a turn
of parchment paper
that indeed his last
tortilla had slipped by;

so he did what anyone
might do and closed
the empty container.