Imported

I followed the recipe exactly,

the cumin, the cabbage,

the double-stacked corn tortillas

warming on the skillet.

But the air in this kitchen

is too clean, too contained.

It needs the smell of diesel

and the salt off the harbor

in San Pedro.

It needs the plastic crate

and the sun beating on the asphalt.

I squeeze the lime

until it’s a flattened green husk,

but it just tastes like

being somewhere else.