September 19, 2006


There is a place
where the men with glistening foreheads
have music in their blood
and blood in their music,

where the guitars can cry so loudly
and so plaintively,
that the widows go silent
and invisible, black-draped
like windows for a bomb drill,

where the night explodes
beneath stamping feet,
as flesh explodes
beneath wily horns,
spilling sangria
across a tablecloth,

where the young men with fire in their fingers
"te quiero, te quiero,
amor," and already
it sounds like an echo.

In the morning,
they will all be echoes,
wordless love songs from the past,
hummed tunelessly by

the young women
who wring the water
from their pillows
to wash the tired tablecloths
stained, yet again,
with red.

Fall 2005.

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