Chile Relleno 

when i go out to eat with my mom she always
gets chile relleno & i still don't know 
what it tastes like. after this last time
i looked up recipes, i crafted a story 
that one day she would come & visit 
my apartment & i would surprise her by
making chile relleno. i would have her
watch while i carved out the insides of
two green hot peppers. i always think that
the hot peppers resemble mummies or coffins,
all coated in breading & oozing white cheese.
the version she got this last time the chile
was in a pool of sauce (floating down
the red tomato river styx).
i guess in a less morbid vain 
the swaddled peppers also
kind of look like kids in sleeping bags. 
after the peppers are all hollowed out
i would invite my mom to climb inside one.
crawling on all fours, i'd show her what
i meant by nestling into the other.
us; two fistfuls of white cheese ready
to melt, the skin of the peppers 
going soft & charring around us. 
when i go out to eat with my mom i always 
get a salad with the dressing on the side.
i don't know if she thinks about making
this for me; it's not warm or comforting
or spicy like chile relleno. i think i will
make it for her one day, just like that.
when i come home from lunch with my mom
i always find my bed has turned into 
a great green pepper. i take the knife
& carve out the middle, flicking 
the seeds into a waste basket. as i work
i recount all the things mom & i talked about
over our separate plates 
& glasses of diet coke with lemons:
my brother, my father, my uncle &
in the last five minutes a bit about
her job at the newspaper. newspapers are
always dying. i imagine her driving back
to work & finding her office building
is just one big green pepper. she takes
out a pocket knife & sets to work
removing the stem to take out the seeds.
before we parted i told her i loved her
because i do. we hug in the parking lot
of a Mexican restaurant & both of us
turn briefly into sticky piles of seeds
in the belly of an even bigger green pepper.