Work

Chips and salsa.

Who could imagine that something so simple

Would attract so much attention?

Cada día

Hundreds of faces flood into the small space like

A roaring sea

One by one, group by group

Everyone quickly claims their seat in the bustling bar

And densely packed dining room

Hastening their pace to avoid patience

I try to keep up with them as best I can

Scrambling to take names and numbers

And estimating the expanse of time

Before they engulf

The flavorful plates crafted by the cooks

I steadily shape the serviettes with the silverware

Polishing, packing, and perfecting each set

Tremendous scoops of warm totopos are placed into baskets

And spicy salsas are served

To complement the saltiness

Waiters, hosts, bosses, and managers mingle

With the multitude of personas

But behind the barriers blocking the

Gazes of customers lies our own beehive

Every employee engulfs themselves in their work

Relaying requests, taking tickets, bringing bebidas, carrying comida

The restaurant may be a roaring sea,

But we are a tsunami of activity

Over the course of the night, genuine greetings and gracious goodbyes

Appear to appreciate every passing second

It is as if the wave of famished, familiar faces

Will never quite touch the shore

But as closing time looms,

The loads of people leave their delightfully lavish dishes

For a night that will soon lead to another ambitious day

The newly sequestered quietness is striking

The tide seems to have turned intangible

Now, workers welcome nightly normalities such as

Bussing booths, sweeping suelos, and neatly preparing for the next day

As final tasks are taken on, meaningful memories between amigos are created

And slowly but surely, the herd of hardworking empleados hastens home

“Buenas noches!”

So strange is the sudden sensation of the complete and utter

Silence.

-Harper Johnson

Beneath the Colors

He was an artist,

A marvelous one, at that,
And every day,
He painted a portrait
Of the person he cherished most.

“Is it someone you love?”
“Perhaps one of your friends?”
Many asked about the identity
Of his beautiful muse,
But he never revealed the truth,

Not until the day his head drifted 
Too far into the clouds, 
And with the gentle smile he usually reserved
For his beloved portraits, he said, 
“Yes… This is love.”

But his love was different from others’.
His love was a painting of red
And orange
And yellow
And green
And blue
And purple.

And though he painted his muse
With shoulder-length hair,
Warm, rosy cheeks,
And a summery dress,
The truth remained beneath the colors.

The red,
The orange,
The yellow,
The green,
The blue,
The purple.

Everyone could try to guess
Who it was that he cherished most,
But only he knew the truth;
Only he knew 
What laid beneath the colors.

But a love like his,
True, 
Boundless, 
And unconditional,
It was not an easy love to hide. 

There were times when he regretted
Loving the person he loved
Because he felt himself
Falling too fast, too deeply,
And drowning as he did. 

When he looked at his friend,
His muse,
His love,
It was difficult—
Sometimes unbearable. 

Whenever they were together,
His beloved friend always wore 
A familiar expression,
An expression similar to the one he wore
When he painted portraits of his muse.

But this warm, familiar expression
Was always given 
To someone else.
He knew, 
He had always known,

That his love—
No matter how many colors
He used to paint it,
To hide it—
Was an unrequited love.

Even so, he continued loving,
And with each portrait he painted,
This regretful love grew
Stronger and stronger,
And he fell deeper and deeper.

The person I love
Will never love me the same.
He knew this was true,
And that’s what made it hurt
So much more.

No matter how close he was
To the person he loved,
No matter how many times they
Talked, laughed, 
And gazed at one another,

The person he cherished most,
The person in all of his portraits,
Would never love him the same, 
Yet, truthfully, he didn’t mind.
His muse deserved to be loved. 

Indeed, his love was different from others’.
He didn’t need words.
He was an artist, after all.
Instead, he painted his feelings
With 6 different colors. 

And at the end of the day,
When he put his brushes down and
Observed the new portrait of his beautiful muse,
The words of love he wished to confess
Were spoken through each delicate stroke. 

For now,
He would love this way,
Silently conveying 
All of his feelings
Beneath the colors. 

-Tiffany Huang