the pupusa is a portrait
of an honest earth:
the coarse burns continents,
the auroral dough a sea.
water joined masa through tumult
& sphered, flattened then crowned,
filled with meat & milk then smoothed,
heat birthed & bitten.
no, the pupusa is an homage
to the laborer’s backhand
where scars simmer & settle,
strawberry skin browns.
sweated flesh crackles on steaming metal,
grease singing smoke loud then sweet over & over,
flipped & rested, an iris weepy then dry,
ashen islands form & a back stiffens.
no, the pupusa is a documentation
of every pecado,
the taut pink palate
a receipt for indulgence.
a sheet of young wood pulp dims,
then an emergence of weighty shadows.
a sycamore pith rises & splits
& spits a globe of queso.
no, the pupusa is a bulging mirror
to this sleepless face. examine
the wrinkle bowls under each eye & find
another tired eye under another tired eye.
the cream sol bulges then sombers,
sunspots & scabs black;
what can this light nourish
but a body ripe with eonic exhaustion?
no, the pupusa is a portrait
of this life, crusting & breaking
with every lick & tooth, the desire & gift
of jarabe yielding to the shape of a belly.
crack open the soft disc egg
& study its ivory thick blood & tender marron,
stretching like a timeline of grief,
& lap the fresh veins.
These are some of the sketches and creative process to create the illustration. From pen on paper to the procreate on the ipad.