Sonido

The pozole swirled in the big pot, like rotten teeth in the mortuary sink.
While the pig head lumbered along the bottom emitting greasy fat into the cold water. I stood there, looking watching but not really. Standing in my old house coat, cooking for a bastard. I was making pozole, since it was the best hangover cure on Sundays. I would spend my Saturday evening cooking your pozole, mixing masa and water for fresh tortillas that I would start cooking in the dawn. The dawn when you would stroll in, smelling of you, beer and perfume. Humming and singing wrapping your loose arms around my ample frame telling me to dance with you. Nuzzling my neck and grinning at the tortillas. I motion to the table where the growing pile is napping in its tea towel, steaming and dreaming. You straddle a chair, pop open a cold beer and methodically start consuming my nights work. You are still talking of who danced to what, who was with who and who hit who. I turn back to the pozole and inhale the rich fragrant stem laced with chili and pork. I am reminded of when I would go with you to the taqueria at dawn for pozole and beer. My feet swollen in my heels and my hair mussed from sweat and salsa. Resigned to my lot I dish out two bowls and sit with you; my Sonido