preparing peruvian lomo saltado

  Amiga, unfazed, hacks away with her small machete. Her ax peels the slivers of onion

  bark away from the bulbous tree, where they fall like pine needles, mingling with her

  pumpkin seed tears. Cutting through this onion is cutting through her, thin lines of

  mascara streaking down her face, black vine tendrils. Her face a brown canvas, lost in

  this forest, this arena of food. The slab in front of me is cold, numbing my fingers and

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  rejecting my blade. I am fighting with a jellyfish, jello de carne, pink marble slab.

  Amiga is offering up her kindling, tossing the small ivory pieces onto the stove, mixing

  with golden sap: a pond of oil. As the onion slices crackle in liquid fire she turns to

  face me, me with this sword, hacking away at this faceless opponent, the metal

  reflecting off his salmon-pink armor. No I do not need help, let me face my demons

  alone! Fingernails dig into this fleshy hill, steel penetrating the carne: I leave carnage in

  my wake. Rosy chunks, fallen petals are strewn across the wooden chopping block. I

  lay down my knife, turn away. Let them bury the dead in round metal caskets, ringed

  by flame.