Besame,

the crooner breathed from the vinyl record,
besame mucho; and a few more lines
in Spanish that I can’t remember, this song

that floated like a veil over the sound
of clinked highball glasses, musky
murmur from a living room packed

with couples in the days my parents
entertained— while I lay in bed
listening, and rain striped the window

behind the crocheted curtains. Getting up
to tiptoe to the bathroom, who did I see
pressed in the shadow of the potted plant,

against the lawyer’s breast? And that
plaint, that pleading: I know its color
now— the lilac shade of longing

that looks to slide into the arms
of evening, the way I want to feel
your lips linger, your tongue

shape itself to the ache of my mouth.
The way the syllable opens in mucho,
before trailing off into the night.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.