The music is slow: a tango
filled with rain and lamplight,
a stem clenched in a woman’s teeth.
It makes me want to gather the darkest
red in my hands: thick paste of pounded
bleeding-heart flowers, gumamela the prize
we climb a barbed wire fence to pluck—
Disaster always its own remedy
except when the hum starts again
and the string forgets there ever was a time
it did not know what it meant to be rendered.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
This is haunting, Luisa. Thank you.