Instructions for Playing Dominos in a Puerto Rican Kitchen

Rule #1:
First, brew the coffee. Not the fancy stuff —
Bustelo, dark as midnight, strong enough
to wake your ancestors. They’ll want to watch.

Rule #2:
Set up the table where the dominos will clack
like wooden spoons against calderos,
like chanclas against bare feet running past curfew.
Position your chair where you can see both
the game and the sofrito simmering on the stove.
Multi-tasking is hereditary.

Rule #3:
When shuffling, tell stories about your prima’s new boyfriend
who “doesn’t even know how to make pegao.”
Let the tiles speak their own chisme as they scrape
across formica worn smooth by three generations
of elbows and arguments.

Rule #4:
Never play against Tío Ramón unless you enjoy
humiliation and unsolicited political commentary
about how things were better when he was young
and dominos were carved from real ivory,
not this plastic nonsense.

Rule #5:
Keep score in Spanish numbers whispered
like prayers between hands of crossed arms.
Your English may pay the bills,
but dominos only understand the old tongue.

Rule #6:
When Abuela brings out the pastelillos,
lose the next hand. She worked too hard
on that picadillo to watch it go cold.
Some victories are measured in cleared plates,
not points.

Rule #7:
If you hear “¡Capicú!” check the player’s sleeve.
If you hear “¡Bendito!” check the rice.
If you hear both, call the priest.

Rule #8:
The doubles must be played vertically,
like the posture your mother insisted upon,
like the pride that keeps our chins up
when the bills come due.

Rule #9:
Learn to read the table like Abuela reads café grounds:
Every tile a prediction, every play a prophecy.
The future is written in dots of ivory on ebony,
in the spaces between what is played and what is held back.

Rule #10:
When you lose (and you will lose),
accept the defeat like a helping of arroz con gandules —
with grace, gratitude, and the knowledge that
there will always be another game,
another story,
another pot of coffee brewing in the corner
where the ancestors gather to critique your strategy
and remind you that love, like dominos,
is a game of patience, tradition, and knowing
when to hold your tiles close
and when to let them fall.