We kiss to flamenco
on your kitchen radio
your eyes open
my eyes watching yours.
We've been talking about tribes
with your hair
still carrying the weight
of last night's smoke
and scented oil
as I shrug on the skin of a beast
you refuse to eat
and let myself out into the day.
Last night when you shot
pool beneath a cone of light
your long lines unfurling
as you leaned across the table
I knew we wouldn't make love
on your floor
but along the wall
I saw more than you
dark and quiet though not quite
still, a shadow waiting to pounce
on chanting natives moving
quickly, covered with clay.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem