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.
