Tu, Otro

Tu, Otro

In a universe parallel to this,
or juxtaposed, I suppose,
there is another Spain.
The roses are redder there
but their thorns are fewer,
the better to clutch in the teeth.
The sangria is just as strong
and the blood runs as hot,
but there you are different
than here.
You dance flamenco
in a family of dancers
in a city like Madrid,
but not.

First dance your sisters,
leaving gasps in their wake.
How can they be so beautiful?
Your mother comes next,
to teach us all
the beauty of experience.
Finally you appear,
and set the show on fire.
Every man wants to be you,
and every woman wants to be with you.
I smile, because it is me who takes you home.

You close your eyes in the cab,
your head upon my shoulder,
but you are not ready to sleep.
We climb the stairs,
and you kiss me there, as always;
it is our tradition.
We peel off your skintight costume.
drenched with sweat,
and I bring a glass of wine
to your bath.
I make tapas for two,
which we forget to eat,
hungry only for each other.