marula café, barcelona

my first instinct is to reach
for your words. i am hungry.
your spanish is the colour of tomatoes.
poppies. the lights of this dance
floor spin. whisper into my ear
torso curving
a treble clef round
the stave of my chest
i curl myself
  into
your home

just for the night
a little rickety shelter
of ripe new words
                      worlds
i am told i have it in me already
the latin rhythm

laugh
a sound snailed into the music
wordless beautiful dance
    taste it again
the spanish sung
the music swung
        my hips
swaying
like tomatoes
ready to

     fall

words
worlds
drop down from my lips
fertile and
         whole
on their way
to bruise
to rot

drip-drop
   spill then
silence.

   gone.

Artwork from Augusta Salsa Club, Atlanta