Taco Love: a poem

1. I choose my favorite taco truck, and, if possible, follow its whereabouts on Twitter. After leaving my lover (because it’s been a long time coming) and drinking too many cocktails with girlfriends who are trying to make me feel better, I cry a little more and then tell them nothing will console me, but a taco might come close. I then designate the sober friend to drive as I check the feed of the taco truck to see which highway to speed to with all the windows open, the four of us giggling like high-schoolers about to behave badly.

2. We locate the truck, go to the window and smile at Lupita, griddling hot tortillas. For three to five people, I usually order about 15 small tacos. We get the carnitas, al pastor, barbacoa, tripa and lengua. For a change, I ask for heart and liver, cabeza—all the body parts that ache. I bring out the shaker of margaritas and toast my friends, grateful that they will eat with me—especially the one who is on an organic juice cleanse, and the other who hasn’t eaten meat in three years. I remind them how much I love them for that and more, and that life isn’t worth living without friends who know how to eat the heart out of a taco. -ks