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Chorizo, a poem by Teri Costello

by Teri Costello

Huevos con chorizo on Sunday mornings,
a snapshot of San Diego I had never seen.

Your childhood. Noisy, rowdy, poor.
Steaming platters of frightening food served by the dark-eyed waitress,
and you, buttering my bread.

The cooks singing to the yipping Mexican music on the radio, cranked up.
And you, my green-eyed Sicilian, fascinating me, naïve White Girl.

Playing, laughing, listening to gospel music roar from the Baptist church.  

Nobody hid when the unusual rain came to Southern California that morning; Perfect was everywhere.

Do you remember the weekend in Ensenada that year,
climbing the rock face stoned, Phil Harris in Hussong’s?

It’s different there now. Have you heard?

Bio: Originally from San Diego and a CPA by profession, Teri Costello took down her shingle in 2011 and moved to Indianapolis after living in Los Angeles and Chicago. In her words, “Life now is sweet, close, and personal.”