It’s like Plaza Mayor in Madrid in May
erupting into red flowers for San Isidro.
Like a tree shaped promise shattering in the palm
of your hands.
Like caramel gelato made from all your childhood tears.
Like blood from your heart spilling all over
your white sofa.
Like knowing you should never buy a white sofa
but will again.
Like hoping the blood never comes out.
Or staying up til dawn to see fireworks on Mars,
then falling asleep right before they start.
Like meeting your daughter’s fiancé and feeling bereft
that you never had a son.
Like helping the moon give birth to a sun.
Or playing a grand piano with your lover’s hands.
Like lightning striking the same spot over and over again.
Like talking to God for free on Whatsapp.
Like the last snowflake of your life melting
in your wine glass.
And the way cool water feels wetter when you’re naked.
Like dining blindfolded in Big Sur and crying because
you have missed so much of what is delicious.
Like eating wild boar ribs with just your eyes.
Like watching the pink-dusted Taj Mahal move farther
away when you run towards it.
Or praying that two stars will collide even if it means
the debris could be deadly.
Like wanting to drown if it meant you could move like that.
Like trying to drown because you can’t and never will.
Like drowning in Moorish cante jondo and palmas as
intricate as the algorithm of lust.
Lost––in the way the dancers ignore the sweat
on his upper lip,
the strands of her dark hair that loosen
from her turnings, dampen her brow.
The way his bolero jacket is teased on and off
as her ruffled skirt rises and falls.
How the Spanish guitar knows all my words for yes.
Schuylkill Valley Journal Issue 61, Fall/Winter 2026