latino butter

Dulce de leche, smooth and

textured like grains of sand.

The color of rusting pennies or

my cousin’s vivacious hair.

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Shiny as lantern light reflections.

Coating paper-thin panqueques

and off-brand saltines. Nestled

inside facturas, fresh pastries

on proud display in shops,

sin scent and smell jumping

through windows propped open

and doors that refuse to stop spinning.