Outside Paula’s kitchen Street sounds, afternoon light I asked about the pots Clanging past three
“Christmas orders?” She shook her head That smile reached her eyes “Un benefactor,” she said Slow, for my stumbling Spanish
Someone paid for tamales School lunches, every day Two hundred, sometimes four Besides her standing orders
Paula’s hands in darkness Pressing masa, night by night Steam rising in the kitchen While her husband lies and listens
Hands that used to help her Still
They used to work together Years of shared rhythm, side by side His heart surgery changed that
Now he listens to the pots While she stands there alone Till three
And I can’t stop wondering Who is he, this giver What does he remember
He could have bought boxes of candy His name on something bright Easy. A photo. A moment But he chose tamales
Real food, made by Paula’s hands Warm bundles that say you matter Not charity. Understanding Almost holy
Was he hungry at school Does he remember that ache Of smelling food that’s not for you
Paula’s tired hands Morning, and again at night Her husband listening To the work they used to share
She’s feeding something more than bodies The knowledge someone chose you
The benefactor stays unknown Because the giving is the point The giving is the point
He could have bought boxes of candy But he chose tamales, Paula’s hands
Two hundred children. Four hundred Fed with dignity, every day
Almost holy Almost holy
Tamales wrapped in corn husks Passed from hand to hand to hand Have become almost holy Actually holy