TRADITION

by Linda Malm

Chili peppers roil in the roaster

bright green fish caught in a net

Charred and crackled pepper smell 

swells the line of patient souls

with carts of bulging burlap bags.

They push the August harvest.

Noontime sun torments. 

Some open up umbrellas, 

shade from many colors.

The only rain, the maestro's hose. 

It steams and splits the chilies. 

The gas roar stops. Rubber gloves

bag someone’s heavy load. 

Raw crispness limp and roasted. 

The long line moves a little more. 

The maestro lifts and loads again.

Fire leaps.  It’s Judgment Day he jokes  

tempts our hunger with free tortillas

and offers up his hottest peppers. 

Unwittingly we wrap and bite the sting.

Some yelp.  Some are seized, some silent,

but each cook endures, needing August 

heat for meals in deep December.