Night Stories
the night is dark.
but the buzzing luminance
from street carts and lanterns
light up what could not be seen before.
the grills hisses as a man flips the tortilla
twice, then chops the carnitas with his knife.
his name is Ivan, and his cooking is a song
amongst the other voices,
the chitter chatters of passers,
the guitar pluckings of the street performers,
and the moonlight melodies.
the woman everyone calls Mimosa
drums her cart with her calloused yet delicate
hands as she hollers that one bite of her
isaw and kwek-kewek will blow you away.
next to her is Anh who can turn noodles
into pho and bun bonam bo, steaming
and sizzling into the cool crisp air.
the smell of pork and broth dance like
the people dance as they sing their own stories
in different ways.
Giuseppe came from Peru with
nothing but the memories of his
mother’s tamales which he now stuffs with
pollo and cornmeal dough, then
steams and wraps in banana leaves.
he whistles “Contamana” and kisses
the air as his mother used to kiss him.
this is the sound of night.
no one is asleep because
their stories are alive.
