The Spanish Filler (Mierda)

Lyrics

[Intro]
The kitchen is hot. Twenty-eight degrees Celsius.
The air tastes like burnt sugar and disappointment.

[Verse 1]
Bouba was at the stove. A recipe from 1925.
Churros, it promised. Golden and light.
But the oil was too hot. The sugar turned black.
And a word escaped, a puff of smoke.
Mierda.
It came out flat. The second R was wrong.
Like a stone skipping once, then sinking.

[Chorus]
It’s the alveolar trill. The apex of the tongue.
Tapping, vibrating, against the alveolar ridge.
A motor that won’t start. A flutter of a trapped bird’s wing.
Bouba tries again. Mier-da.
Nothing.
The air will not roll for her.

[Verse 2]
I fetch the Diccionario de la Real Academia.
Heavy, smelling of dust and authority.
I find the page. Two definitions.
One: excremento.
Two: an interjection. For anger, for annoyance, for surprise.
For a pan of ruined churros on a hot July day.

[Chorus]
It’s the alveolar trill. The apex of the tongue.
Tapping, vibrating, against the alveolar ridge.
I take out my small hand-mirror. I watch my own mouth.
Mier-rr-da.
The vibration shivers the glass.

[Bridge]
In Andalusia, they soften it.
They add a suffix, make it small.
Mierdecilla.
Little shit.
A term of endearment, almost.
A curse made into a strange kind of love.
Like the smoke in this kitchen.
Like the quiet between us now.

[Outro]
Bouba looks at the dictionary, then at me.
She takes a breath.
Tries one last time.
Mier… da.
The sound hangs in the air.
Still flat.
Still hers.