Regional

The bag is turning transparent in spots,

soaked through with the kind of oil

that stays in your pores for a week.

Nobody else makes them like this—

bitter, twice-fried, and heavy

as a handful of wet gravel.

Behind the bus station, the air

smells like exhaust and old grease.

I sit in the car and let the salt

find the cracks in my bottom lip.

It stings, a sharp, white burn

that reminds me I’m sitting here,

chewing on something that hurts

just because it tastes like the place I grew up.