The 12th Commandment by a Mexican Woman

When people see me,

they always think of food.

I wish it were a picture or a paper

or even a metal, I reminded them of.

But all of a sudden,

my face turns into a big flour tortilla, in their eyes.

My arms the other tortilla that hugs itself to feed them,

and my hands are asparagus and carrots, chiles and cilantro ristras.

My butt, papas fritas con huevo

smelling up the space with food thoughts.

My stomach a molcajete,

grinding and blending up the salsa and guacamole for them.

The only flower blooming about me is a margarita.

My feet the wine, my toes the grapes.

And as a working, milking, thinking, writing, loving, computing, e-mailing womanI say,

"Please don't eat me I am not a taco".