Crumbs dissolve on my tongue like
Té with Tía Alina in the low sun.
Inside, the gooey filling brings me
to the apple pies mama stopped making
after I turned eleven.
Still in my mouth, the chalkiness
takes me back to Cochabamba mornings,
listening to the chattering voices and wheezing cars
as the crowded city invades my ears.
I swallow the remainder, but the taste lingers,
Wanting to stay for good.