It’s almost Christmas
and everyone is unpacking:
the lost box of heirloom ornaments
that can finally be displayed
on a tree set up in balmy November;
the extemporized nativity
with its statues of St. Francis and Santa Claus
added a few years ago
even though they weren’t actually at the birth
(but petal-pink Jesus is missing again
and will need to be replaced).
Unpacking gifts sent by out-of-town relatives.
Unpacking gifts ordered online.
But what everyone really wants to unpack
are the yearly complaints about the current price
of hojas, and chiles, and nixtamal.
Along with all the moans and groans
come the empty threats:
“Sólo haremos tamales para la familia.
We’re not giving any away,”
even though the guy who lives down the street,
whose name and family nobody knows,
will end up with a bag of red and green.
Every year, new gripes about making tamales,
the threats to buy them from a bakery,
but after eating a plate of one too many
on a clear and starry Nochebuena,
with a cup of rompope or diet soda
we all agree that—despite inflation—
the sweet and the spicy were worth every penny.
Charles Haddox (he/him) lives in El Paso, Texas, on the U.S.-Mexico border, and has family roots in both countries. His poetry has appeared in a number of journals including Birdcoat Quarterly, Volume Poetry, and Vita Poetica. charleshaddox.wordpress.com
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