By Amy Chozick
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
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,
mostly 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.
