enchillada kosher salt
gather amorphous shapes
on evening sun warmed glass.
i watch you lick your thumb and
gather it unto you
knowing your mouth’s heat.
“get that away from me.”
you interrupt your story about New Mexico,
succulents, and how your mother did your father
that one time.
and, your abuelita took you away,
“there are somethings a fifth grader should not see.”