by Amy Chozick

"Pancakes"

She let the dishes pile up unwashed,
batter and ground meat
panted from rusted tin pans.
For days they stood,
glutted with macaroni shells
that seeped from sink to counter.

No time to clean the spatula,
she flipped another batch.
In an exodus from couch to kitchen,
we clumped around her,
knotted fists, fought to be first.

Mama giggled as I crawled
under her flannel nightgown--
breath of cotton and thigh.
Her veins, kelp that drew me
into tides of tummy,
hide-and-go-seek with patched-up panties.

A fleshy scar around her stomach
calmed the smell of stale Sunday breakfasts,
of burnt buttered biscuits and canned oj.
It hugged her whole belly,
a horseshoe that tickled when I touched it,
blueberries of a worn-out woman
blushing.

"I went into the Altazor Bar"
Inspired by "I went into the Maverick Bar" by Gary Snyder

I went into the Altazor Bar
in Bellavista, Santiago
and drank sour shots of pisco
chased with wine.

It was July and bitter outside,
I wore leg warmers and a long, blue skirt
made in Spain.

The wooden table rattled and swayed
beneath my drink,
at one point, I thought it was
another quake.

A man with no teeth and a guitar shouted
something about Pinochet-- we cheered.

Behind him hung photos of faces,
mostley men's like the ones
who now packed the place,
guzzling down schop mixed with orange Fanta.

Orange Fanta adds color to this country.

We banged on our tables in unison.

We celebrated because the old dictador had come home,
ready to die or be punished,
or both.

In the shadow of celebration and song,
the night breeze of the Andes
rushed past morning street vendors,
through the swinging wooden doors.

It swept past me,
carrying the smell of my grandmother's pillows--
fresh flowers and doughy empanadas,
and like a curfew,
pulled me
back home.

Winter of '85

I am holding it in my hands,
the only snow I've ever known,
and a cup of hot chocolate
I would normally drink
under heavy air conditioning,
but not today.

It arrived this morning,
now four feet deep and falling,
I plunge into it,
brave the arctic pillows
that blew in from up east
and chose to lounge upon my
seventy-five degree winter,
before hitching a ride to the border
and melting into a river.

I know it will only last a day,
but still I build myself a sled,
saw away at a rotting water ski,
and transform the slalom
my oldest cousin fractured
her femur on into something
useful.

(c) Copyright 2002 Amy Choznick