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Description
A child at the grocery store
digs his hands into the bulk pinto beans,
scoops out small handfuls, lets them pour
through his fingers.

The beans are dried, the life in them suspended
but when they fall from his hand the sound they make
is the sound of water;
like a heavy rain or the secret words
spoken by rivers.

They are like hundreds of tiny beads
each one marked differently, beautifully:
splashes of rich brown on the tan shell
all subtly radiating from the tiny spot
on the side that once connected each bean
to the clean, white inside
of a slender, green pod
on a small plant
in the sun.

When I was young
my grandmother would cook beans;
It’s easy with a crockpot
but she always simmered them
in a big old speckled pot on the stove.

I could stand on a chair and see them
tumbling over each other in the water,
Growing heavy and soft.
It took hours.
My grandmother would sit in the kitchen
wth her little tv set on the table — or maybe
she read a book or talked on the phone —
while she stirred her beans.
She made her own tortillas too,
which were never round but thick and warm,
perfect for spooning up beans, and for soaking up bean broth
at the end of the bowl.

There is subtle something in a bowl of homemade beans
that cannot be reproduced at Taco Bell, or in a tin can.
It is a taste that tastes like the earth
and it tastes even better
with red chile and cheese.