Two Poems

recipe (for tuesday merienda)

      steep your house
in the pocket
      of a quiet hour
while Tito boils water
     carefully empties the silver
  packet of powder
      leaves an oil-dappled
love letter
        with the instructions:
“eat
                    now
            before
        the noodles
grow fat
      from sitting
      in the broth”
drizzle high-noon
                    insectsong
              over the balcony while
    your Titas and Titos
           salt air with
        their scallion laughter
       leave your heart
a tender
   yolk nestled
in the uncracked
     cream of your chest
        lift the long-life
prayer to your mouth
     unwind the slow
neighborhood of your days
             sit in the broth
              of sun, drip green
          grow fat

***

What My Father Asked When I Said I Wanted To Be A Poet

How will you make money with that degree? / Can you feed
yourself with the white space / of an errant sonnet? / Can a poem make
a missed student loan payment? / If you get a flat thirty miles into fire country, /
would a poem change your tire? / Will a poem never tire of you? /
When you leave in the forgetful doorway of morning, what stanza
can call you back to yourself? / Can you marry a poem? / What will they do
when you tell them that you’re not raising this baby alone?