Jalapenos

Fermenting in their own juices they

sit in a mason jar on a table next to

my father.  And one by one, he pulled each out and ate them whole,

 

saving the stems

which he collected like trophies on the

rim of his plate.  The satisfaction in

his face as he bit into each, as if

he were sitting on his father’s shoulders

after working in the fields and together

they grew something

they would always share

even in separation—

even in death.

 

He forked one and offered it to me.

This green, kidney-shaped vessel covered

in moisture dripped on the table

in slow, broken rhythms. And I

hesitated.

“Is this thing hot?”

“No, not at all.”
“Are you sure?”

“Trust me.”

I then took a bite as deep as the pride I felt

when I heard the stories of my grandfather

who worked with my father in the

fields.

 

The heat was a belt cracked across

my face and lightning strikes of white

light segued through a kaleidoscope

of red, green, and brown that converged

into the shape of my father’s eyes—hot  

with impatience because I was too

slow to learn:

the family ritual, my grandfather’s language, the strength

of the men who worked

long after their eyes burned, their  

hands bled, their backs stained

with the permanent mark of the heat.

Heat that grows from the ground

and created entire cultures of men

who passed this heat

onto their sons.  Heat that cannot be

softened by water, or sweat, or tears, or the

trust a son has for his father.