a bedtime story

taco was

a happy taco, proud beans and ground

beef, diced tomatoes and shredded lettuce draped

in a blanket of sharp cheddar, in a sprinkling of sliced black

olives from a can.

taco fell in love with a sauce known

as guacamole, the mashed daughter

to avocado and garlic, whose breath was sweet

with red onions, hair sticky with a twist

of lime

from her mother’s

fruity roots.

taco had to have her. he lay awake at night dreaming

of how he would slather her over his cheesy blanket,

or how he would dip himself into her

to make his taste all the more sweet, the crunchy

baked-corn shell of him

nearly cracking

with the thought of such pleasures.

he knew that he could be better with her.

but guacamole came with a price. avocado and garlic

did not approve of hard-shells, and so taco shed himself

in favor of a pliable flour blossom.

but avocado and garlic demanded

that he provide their daughter with luxuries so taco sauced

himself in black beans and cilantro,

dressed with white rice (for added

nutrition).

but avocado and garlic were offended. they saw the great

lengths taco had gone through and they said,

“you have gone through great lengths to change

yourself for this one thing, who is to say you

will not change again so quickly

when something better comes along?”

then taco went to the market and sold

his tomatoes, sold

his olives and even his beloved spicy meat

for a mixture of pico de gallo

he bought from a gypsy.

she instructed taco on how to dice

the tomatoes correctly, advised him to wash

his hands after handling the chiles, to add the serrano

just before going out, and where to adorn himself

with a splash of lime for the best

effect.

“surely,” the gypsy told him, “any vegetable parent

will see the depths of this love."

and taco lay awake that night, thinking

of guacamole's tender and fruity chunks, cool

and green, green the color

of her eyes, green

the color of the salted sea,

thought taco.

taco returned to avocado and garlic, draped

in his handsome cloak of pico.

he said, “i have done so much to prove to you

that guacamole is the only condiment that could ever

make me whole. we are not complete

without each other. you said that i have changed,

and you are right. i have changed,

but for guacamole. i have become

better for guacamole. i have demonstrated

fourfold my dedication to your daughter.”

true to the gypsy’s words, avocado and garlic

saw that taco spoke truth. but they had one last request:

to see that taco could provide protection to their daughter

from the fierce elements of room-

temperature, which turned her delicate complexion

a rotting shade of brown.

in one swift movement, taco wrapped himself

in his flour blossom to demonstrate his flexibility. this

greatly excited avocado and garlic, as taco had

enough space for an extra portion, and they

were excited to have grandchildren.

so taco became a burrito for love of guacamole,

and they lived happily ever after.