Empanadas by Elizabeth Miller-Reyes

Empanadas

because I have patience to cut butter
into salted flour, my vocation is one
my father can brag about.

A tablespoon or two of iced water
form a ball after the crumble and eggs
have joined together. Let the dough rest.

I fill these crescent envelopes
with lean ground beef, mozzarella,
questions of my sexuality
crimp with tines and release them into scorching oil.

You are only as good as the number of bubbles
that rupture the surface of the dough as it fries.

I want my father to know
he is insulation against burning.

Empanadas are only what he asks of me:
never that I marry a good man,
believe god or care for my mother;

but that I see him parade his Skechers oxford shoes,
indulge him in a walk and hear him practice his I love yous.

That I pop afloat high temperature
a pocket of air stuffed with accomplishments
savored by a previous generation.

*

Elizabeth Miller-Reyes resides in the Southwest. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous places, including Tin House Online, La Libreta and Downtown Magazine. Some of her poems will be featured in the upcoming LGBTQ Anthology Pajaros, lesbianas y queers a volar! from Dominican Writers.