The Sacrament of the Beans

Under my grandma’s collection
of salt-and-pepper shakers

I watch the ritual washing
of the pinto beans.

She sorts them like she’s reading
a map of the future.

Her fingers move like dragonflies
picking the pebbles out

and brushing the rest into the pot.
Pours out more and they clatter

onto the counter. Spins them
around the copper pot in the sink,

looks into the vortex,
and says, “You must always remove the bits of dirt and rock.”

I watch tortillas bubble,
smell garlic from the granite molcajete,

and think I understand,
but when I become a woman,

I break a tooth
biting into something soft

that turned out
to be made of stone.

Thank you to Monterey Poetry Review for publishing my poem in your current issue!