You, cross-legged with a quick and ready tongue twisted mouth and upper lip reached across the counter past the sapphire glow of a muted television clutching at the salsa from up North brought for you as promised You were always eating salsa in the afternoon in the middle of the night beautifully spaded by dripping reddened fingertips the bowled concoction turned a sour creamy scarlet by your eager grasp unstilled feet in anticipation of the torrent of this new season of chili peppers and tortilla (the ripped green packet of dried leaves and spices Papa put into your molded hand when we came down to Atlanta, in September)
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