it tastes like cardboard, like promises printed on cereal boxes

with artificial sweeteners dissolving on a tongue/ that forgot its mother’s milk

I would rather eat stale pan dulce

sitting next to a man with hands calloused from burying his kin

I long for instant coffee, Nescafé, bitter and grainy

mixed in a chipped mug

by fingers that could coax music from a broken

harmonica

in this land of plenty, I am starving for the scent of sand and cigarettes

for the sound of his cough at dawn

for the weight of his stories

heavier

more nutritious than any $9.99 all American meal

to eat next to a man, not free but feral

wild with the wisdom of survival

his laughter a revolution

against the silence of empty stomachs

here, I eat freedom for breakfast

orphaned from hunger

orphaned from the fierce joy

of finding a ripe mango hanging from a tree

in this country, I’m well-fed, rosy cheeked

my taste buds remembering what güelo said:

freedom is not a flavor

but the space between heartbeats

when even breathing is an act of defiance.