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
your home

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

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


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

   spill then




Artwork from Augusta Salsa Club, Atlanta

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