Literary Interlude: Women's Work

I make rice- white, fluffy, each discrete grain
visible, coated and gleaming-
like my mother did,
and her mother did before me,
Sacramental in the latin liturgy,
not night after night as they did
culinary offerings of every culture
bedecked with mounds of steaming comfort
My late father, beloved, ate his with spaghetti.

No, I make it as Americans do-
bloodless carbohydrate complement-
yet as I make it, I am linked
down the years, mothers and
grandmothers, even to those
forebears, grand and native,
the tall, proud, and dark, as
well as the little frizzle headed men from the sea.
conquerers and unvanquished

Daughter of Hatuey who gave up heaven
to avoid the hated presence of the Spaniard
And of the dread Spaniard who thought gold
led the way there.