I’ve never liked pork; it’s hard for me to chew, it clogs my throat, and lingers in my stomach for days. It weighs heavy in my belly like my husband’s clumsy body over mine each night. In my porteña home, All Saints’ Day was a feast of contrasts: corn tamales, sweet dough with a spicy heart. The mix of sweet and savory enthralls me; that duality seduced me into marriage. My skin, too sugary, longed for the salt of his kisses to keep from succumbing to the ants of loneliness. How naïve I was. Today, my hands taste of bile and disillusion.
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