Merie Kirby
Ode to Tacos
The taco, considered objectively,
is as perfect as everyone claims
sliced bread is, only more so
as no one needs to slice it.
It arrives prepared to do its job.
It’s the star employee
month after month – no one can beat
its sales figures and performance reviews.
The taco knows no bounds,
it will not be contained, open to the sky,
to all eyes, even as it folds its sides
up and over the things that fill it with delight.
It will fall apart, it will let drop
hints and clues that anyone
can follow. If crispy, it cracks. If soft,
it softens further like letters left out in the rain.
The taco is the true cornucopia,
holding chicken tinga, sauteed onions,
grilled peppers, roasted ancho-spiced
sweet potatoes, topped with pickled red onions,
creamy pinto beans, or maybe,
if the tortilla is fried in sugared butter,
a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
A taco is like a conversation between friends,
able to hold everything from the flaws
and maladies of husbands to the surprises of gardens,
TV show storylines and NPR interviews,
memories of nights we sat in bars, drinking beer
and smoking, which we hope our kids
never ask about, laughing into the night.
Let me not to the making of true tacos
admit impediments, o guardian of meals,
o holder of all, let me be more like
the taco than myself, let me spill over,
let me crack, let me pile high within my wings
the delicious abundance of the world.
Simulated Mars Habitat
In the experimental Mars habitat
they communicate with the outside world
only by email, a time lag built in for realism.
They suit up and enter the rover to complete missions
once a week, collecting samples or supplies.
Four people, two tables, one computer station,
four bunks with sliding doors to create
a nest of artificial privacy. Researchers
interview them periodically to “assess the dynamics.”
Aren’t we all good astronauts now?
Keeping in touch through screens, toasting a friend’s birthday
through an interface of light and sound, our space station
to their space station, and when we go outside
we wear our masks, we breathe through a filter we hope
will keep us safe. We find new ways to solve new problems,
nurture crocks of single-celled microorganisms
to leaven bread, and we are so patient,
so careful with our fellow star sailors.
Research shows the dangerous part comes just after
the halfway point
because you are so happy to have made it
halfway, and then you realize how far you still have to go.
We don’t know our halfway. Our halfways
and danger points come in waves, coasting
on engines of hope and anxiety.
Leaving on my spacewalk, I wave at the blue sky,
all the stars still there, hiding behind light, waiting
for the sliding door of day to close.
We’re halfway to evening, more than halfway to winter.
Soon, when we peer out our windows we’ll see
tiny pinpoints of light that could be star,
could be snow, falling all around our habitat.
We still have so far to go before we touch back down.
Merie Kirby grew up in California and now lives in North Dakota. She teaches at the University of North Dakota. She is the author of two chapbooks, The Dog Runs On and The Thumbelina Poems. Her poems have been published in Mom Egg Review, Whale Road Review, SWWIM, FERAL, Strange Horizons, and other journals. You can find her online at www.meriekirby.com
