pasteis
i sit in a noisy room
sip late night coffee
a little too bitter
wait for a girl
in this strange town i wonder if i’ll bump into new old faces
be asked new old questions
have to breathe the news
exhale the fire
inhale the smoke
i burn my lips and tongue and palate on steaming foam
the roof of my mouth caves in and all of the rain from this storm could not beat this blaze
–
this seat, facing the city, backs to the walls, others above us
we fought for this seat every day but that day you let me have it
coffee, short; cappuccino; two small pasteis de nata; a glass of water
the waiter returns with cinammon, powdered, in a shaker
i insist you tip more and instead of fighting me
you knew what you owed
you relent
a stranger passes, though you always say i should remember them
we look so alike, they say
i grimace into my coffee
–
pastel de nata (n.)
a portuguese pastry
a pastry of the portuguese empire
flaky crust enclosing an egg custard, burnt on top
served dusted with cinammon
–
crisp flakes fall from your lips
a dot of cinammon on your nose
it is charming and you are beautiful
but how do i tell you we are eating my home?
that my childhood is in these four bites
– this something I should not return to
this memory I am not allowed
how do I tell you that when you eat and talk we are saying
let’s map the portuguese globe together
lets explore the messiness of our origins
the burnt and the cream and the flake and the hot cinammon
the bitter and alert
the sweet
intimate
familial
–
pastel de nata (n.)
that last trip home where it becomes clear that everything is burning and catching only you, and you have to leave, but you want something good to remember this place by, something to carry, something to return to, and so you spend your last day in the city eating dozens of pastries, before you leave, for forever, for good.
you reimagine home
create a new one.
you tell yourself the heartache will ease if you just go eat some pasteis
but there are none nearby
so you’ll make some
but it is complicated
you never do.
–
i stop eating gluten eighteen months after good
at two years, to the day, I walk into a bakery
wait for her and wonder how I survived the fire
order a coffee
walk by the pastries
pasteis de nata (n.)
portuguese egg tarts
hesitate
walk away
the girl comes
she buys one
a pretty one
with char and cream and crisp in perfect balance
the one I’d choose
and my lungs rise to my throat
I try to swallow them
how strange to know someone is holding your whole life without realizing
how strange to know there can be no room in the life you are beginning to build
for the beautiful kind stranger – the almost new friend – who took your heart
and ate it
Alirio Karina is a queer poet and scholar from Mozambique, currently based in Santa Cruz. They write poetry about living through and within an antagonistic world. Their work can be found in Blind Field Journal.