Tortillas de Harina 

The stir and sound of rattling pans.  
Mother is up, 
and soon she’ll tell the rooster, it’s time to wake. 

Even when paychecks were lean 
and few in between, 
when a roof over our heads 
ruled the day, 
‘cause hunger fares better, in-from the rain. 

But if there was flour,  
tortillas de harina, would answer 
the cry for  
food in the belly  
and all would be good, for the day. 

A pinch of salt, a dab of lard 
a splash of water, 
and let there be masa. 

Soon neatly formed pillows of dough 
would line the table, 
counted out 
like soldiers in formation. 

Her rolling pin ready 
to round them thin to perfection. 

Up and down, up and down, side to side  
all around, 
the rolling pin ever in bounds, 
the rhythm commands to flatten and round. 

One by one  
she drapes the soft pieces across her kind hands 
and lays them to rest, on the heat of the comal, 
they brown and rise! 
a skillful flip, they brown and rise!  
are born a new creation! 
Tortillas de harina 
warm, pliable and soft. 

The smell of freshness 
causes our blankets to fly, and we rise! 
to be fed by her love, su cariño, su ternura.  
¡Tortillas de harina, no pido más! 

Cruz Villarreal is a local published poet with a creative writing degree from Lansing Community College.

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