Guitarra Portuguesa
in the cafe
Carlos Paredes held the Portuguese
guitar – walnut wood – the body
of Lisbon – with twelve strings
his fingers emulated rain
across the room a woman began
dancing –
the fingerpicking and figueto
described her movements –
the underwater sway
of sea grass –
I was submerged
her figure haunted every glass
of water or wine
her shadow drifted through the welter
of candlelight
on the adobe walls
after the final chord
floated across the room
and Carlos Peredes put his guitar down
I breathed in deeply
the steam of baked salmon
buttery spinach and garlic bread –
the music had entered everything
I placed a grape between my teeth
tasted the dark surge of juices
when I realized I could no longer see
the dancer
I wondered if she had disappeared
inside of me
poem by Michael Spring
Added by Poetry Lover
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