Andrés chops onions on the scarred wooden board.
He cries. then he reaches for the carrots.
I’m guessing Andrés is pretty thin,
guessing he’s got stomach trouble.
The great leveler, the stomach.
No matter how rigorous your analysis,
no matter how noble your intent,
no matter how committed to courage,
the sick, the anxious, the terrified belly
clamours for attention like a squalling baby,
Spitting up his mother’s milk.
Those long years together, you and your stomach,
behind the Huacariz prison doors.
You don’t get fat in there.
There is beauty thinking of Andrés chopping onions
Working with his body to soothe other stomachs.
His tears flavour the broth. Fragments from his quick fingers –
chopping carrot suns, slicing onion moons –
enter the hot soup’s heart. Salt and flesh in the mouths
of his brave patrons transformed to laughter
and fierce spirit exhaled into the air,
diluting diesel fumes and fear. Air that goes everywhere,
that slips between bars, slides under doors
and reaches deep into the lungs of those still inside.
Breathing. Breathing.
