A woman operating a
churro stand located in
the parking lot of the Panaderia –
      between her broken English and my broken Spanish,
      and the kind of sign language people use when they can't understand one another, ...

mi y mis amigos – a gesture in a circle—
estamos estudiando en la Universidad —
and de donde es and cuanto años vive en Utah

Eventually it comes together with the
     warming oil in the wok.

A hand on her stomach, hospital and esposo—
Arms cupping an infant, nietos and Mexico —
"¿Hernia?"
"Sí."
"¿Estudiantes?"
"Sí."
"Tiene cuatro niños pero no viven aquí. En Mexcio."

Extra money for rent,                                       
"To help you can we comprar los churros?"

and in the end
it's all we can
offer.

Batter coils and hot oil           spatters up into all of our faces,
a burning counter to the
January wind stinging our cheeks and fingers.

The hot sound of frying dough.

Lo siento, we
say. Lo siento,
lo siento.
y
Buen suerte. Lo
siento.

Cold wind and silence, and then
the fresh churros get dropped into a mixture of sugar and cinnamon.

On the way home,
the sweet and insignificance mix together on my tongue.