Té

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.