<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=418226" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Green Chile</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I prefer red chile over my eggs<br>and potatoes for breakfast.<br>Red chile ristras decorate my door, <br>dry on my roof, and hang from eaves.<br>They lend open-air vegetable stands<br>historical grandeur, and gently swing<br>with an air of festive welcome.<br>I can hear them talking in the wind,<br>haggard, yellowing, crisp, rasping <br>tongues of old men, licking the breeze.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But grandmother loves green chile.<br>When I visit her,<br>she holds the green chile pepper <br>in her wrinkled hands.<br>Ah, voluptuous, masculine,<br>an air of authority and youth simmers<br>from its swan-neck stem, tapering to a flowery collar, <br>fermenting resinous spice.<br>A well-dressed gentleman at the door<br>my grandmother takes sensuously in her hand,<br>rubbing its firm glossed sides,<br>caressing the oily rubbery serpent,<br>with mouth -watering fulfillment,<br>fondling its curves with gentle fingers.<br>Its bearing magnificent and taut<br>as flanks of a tiger in mid-leap,<br>she thrusts her blade into<br>and cuts it open, with lust<br>on her hot mouth, sweating over the stove,<br>bandanna round her forehead,<br>mysterious passion on her face<br>as she serves me green chile con carne<br>between soft warm leaves of corn tortillas,<br>with beans and rice–her sacrifice<br>to here little prince.<br>I slurp form my plate<br>with last bit of tortilla, my mouth burns<br>and I hiss and drink a tall glass of cold water.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All over New Mexico, sunburned men and women<br>drive rickety trucks stuffed with gunny sacks<br>of green chile, from Belen, Beguita, Wllard, Estancia,<br>San Antonio y Socorro, from fields<br>to roadside stands, you see them roasting green chile <br>in screen-sided homemade barrels, and for a dollar a bag, <br>we relive this old, beautiful ritual again and again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jimmy+Santiago+Baca">Jimmy Santiago Baca</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=418226" data-title="Green Chile de Jimmy Santiago Baca" data-description="I prefer red chile over my eggs and potatoes for breakfast. Red chile ristras decorate my door, dry on my roof, and hang from eaves. They lend open-air vegetable stands historical grandeur, and gently swing with an air of festive welcome. I can h..."></div> </div> </div>

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