A Pantry Full of Canned Enchiladas

My grandpa’s legacy of bright tins
nodding toward the great sad part of a century
and California’s proximity to
elsewhere.
Oklahoma and Mexico married here
like some Sonoran dustbowl
in the dark corner of an old man’s garage:
you gotta keep it always stocked, hon’;
you never know, his mouth says.
You’ve never known, his eyes.

Elizabyth Hiscox