Sofía Masondo

The flavours of home are off-putting.
Offals, glands, chitterlings;
the last one, we call chinculínes, my favourite.


I always liked the name, the word’s aftertaste greasy
like an ovenbird leaving the trace
of its chambered nest behind.


Between its mud and sand
abuelo’s hands, dry with dust and cracked by the sun, invade
to toast bread for his famous choripán.


We make sure to argue about politics
los tíos scrape out zambas on the guitar
and I stuff my mouth to avoid the inevitable singalong.


A sip of fernet singes my throat
my full wine glass slowly turning to acid on the table;
it would weigh my wings down tomorrow.


We spend the twenty-fifth of the last month
in seats E23-26, mouths dry and sour, shivering.
The flight attendants wear Santa hats and butcher Feliz Navidad.


Their words fit neat and tidy around my tongue,
but I’d rather stumble over zambas
than sing along with strangers.