Alex C. Eisenberg

Ode to La Mexicana’s Roasted Garlic Salsa

For Chloe and her mother Laura

The summer sun slanted sideways, spilling itself
across the concrete walk as we headed home
– chip bag already cracked and you
prying back the plastic lid, the leverage sending
sweet salsa onto the sidewalk; a bi-monthly baptism

into our roasted-garlic religion. Its scent
tumbling from the tomato thurible, we’d pray
to the gods of chopped cilantro & our taste buds
knelt in the presence of this specific assortment
of spices and citric acid. Arriving home

Sandra Dee would sing silly on the TV and we
would curl together on the couch in worship
wrapped like white burritos in our bathrobes
our palms cupping this savory salvation as we
would dip each chip into the tub, anointing it

parting salsa like the Red Sea. We’d scoop
with hand to holy mouth, to teeth and tingling
tongues this tomato-tortilla truth, then palms
pressed against jeans to wipe off the grease
staining this moment to memory. Still it satiates

even now when Saint de la Mexicana has
retired this distinguished and delicious angel
and our rom-com ritual has relinquished its
holy hold on our hearts, but when sometimes
we’ll still walk the sun-struck sidewalk of Petaluma
hand in hand, humming Summer Nights
like a hymnal.