A Spanglish blog dedicated to the works, ruminations, and mongrel pyrotechnics of Yago S. Cura, an Argentine-American poet, translator, publisher & futbol cretin. Yago publishes Hinchas de Poesia, an online literary journal, & is the sole proprietor of Hinchas Press.

Saturday, April 27, 2013


Las albóndigas remedy remorse, and have been known
to erase all vestiges of a shitty day.
Las albóndigas require furious thumbwork and
bloom in briny, tomato-based broth.
What could be more perfect that ground meat meteors
imploded with cumin, shattered with garlic?

Cristian calls, says, I have my mother’s recipe for albóndigas.
He tells us this as if we are sixteen and taking the recipe
for a joyride. He says it as if the recipe is a state secret cloistered
by amnesiatic librarians, as if carrying the recipe in your brain
automatically imparts short-term memory loss.

Las albóndigas are Mexican soul food, they bulwark your anima,
they prop up your resilience and defenses; let us say that albóndigas
buoy the whine so that it does not weigh or make the coolie overtired.

Las albóndigas say to us as they replace our double A’s: You, you are
besieged on the daily, the slings and arrows of tolerance weigh heavy
in your quiver, but there is respite, and it has been marinating, wordlessly
like some underwater volcano spigot, broiling broth eminence.

Las albóndigas are meant to dry the more waterlogged parts
of your day, so if Cristian tells you to be there at 7, to bring Panda
comma Criatura & co., you cancel all your grand Netflix plans,
all your machinations to the God of Paja, and you clear the calendar
for the evening.

You make sure you are there a little after 7
with a 6 pack of chelas.

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