THE DANCER


Her panther body
leaps and slides
across a world of pink slippers.

She is sultry and strong.
there is something dangerous
about her …
steel beneath the silk.

Her eyes, a brown haze
of melody,
seduce the audience into
believing in a world of gestures.

PHOTO MEMOIRS


So many pictures
to many to count
one by one
I slowly turn the pages
reliving each and every one

Once I was young and wanted to be a princess
up and down the hallways I roamed
parading around in my mother’s bathrobe
pretending it were a garment all of gold.

On and on I would imagine all kinds
of interesting things.
I would pretend I was a bird and
make like I could fly.
but no matter how hard I tried
I could never wave my arms fast enough
to lift me to the sky.

Then came a time when I no longer
needed my imagination to get me through the day
I fell in love
for the first time,
and the second time,
and a third.

I was feeling and hurting
like I never hurt before.
I witnessed my body changing and growing
places which made me unsure of who I was
or of who I was to be
All I was sure of
Is that I wasn’t so alone.

I know now who I have become
what I believe and why I have grown.
I know what is expected of me
and more importantly
what I expect from myself.

I turn a page
and come across some empty space.
still a lot of pages left for me to fill.


THE OTHER DAY


The other day
while wandering in an old bookstore
I was aware of a smell in the air
that reminded me of my grandmother’s house.
The smell
that sweet and musty aroma
that filled every room.

The living room with the shades drawn tightly,
tapestries
and tiny
crystal figures arranged
just so. The damp, cool
touch of everything.

I loved to lie there on the apple red sofa
with my eyes closed
listening
to the small and hurried
steps of my grandmother
preparing this and that
in the kitchen.

Every now and then
I would hear her sigh
or mutter softly to herself
always an indication that
something was not to her satisfaction.

If I went in the kitchen
and offered my help
she would grant me a few jobs to do,
the peeling of the potatoes,
the kneading and massaging of the dough
for the empanadas.

We would work together quickly
my grandmother liked to get things done on time.
Before five, she would send me
down the street to the tienda
to buy milk, coffee, and raisins.

Ten minutes later
I would come through the door
and smell the steamy aromatic dishes
already set in the living room table.
My grandfather was always there
still groggy from his nap
ready to savor every scrumptious moment
of that Sunday afternoon.

PROTOCOL


Women dressed in stiff fashions
Exchange names, backgrounds, and telephone numbers
they pretend to admire Guayasamin paintings
arranged around the room as they sip
their teas and stir their cups of black,
turbid coffee. The furniture is white, smooth
like skin unexposed
to toil and effort.

Diplomats and officials
speed in air-conditioned Mercedes.
Cocktails and hors d’oeuvres are served promptly at seven.
Unknown to them is the heat
of slow-moving hours.

As the sun sets in the distance,
the men and women feign interest in the night life
the dance floor creaks and groans.
Somehow within its beaten boards,
it endures
years of dance and perfumed promises.

IN THE MORNING


The air smells of coffee
and bacon as I jog
down the windy, leaf-littered lane.
Here and there
I hear noises from inside doors,
the echo of voices,
the rumble of cold motors
being started.

As I jog, leaves crackle
beneath my Nikes, muscles
tighten and complain.
The wind
tosses wrinkled leaves
around me. And I think
of myself at a distance:
fists clenched, chest forward,
a moving dot in the horizon.

Aída





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