by Nic Sebastian
and I tell her Bogota in autumn
is drizzle and tramlines until
the Candelaria
the streets become
warm stone they tighten
against cars and all the high houses
have names
we are students in October
in the Candelaria I tell her
weaving crazy
laughter through Gregorian
chant of log fire
Luis Fernando’s silver eyes are from
volcano land they jump at me through cracks
in the fire in the
wine he would much like
that I should sit by him
the warm bones
of his Michelangelo hand
press into my cheek he uses
the subjunctive
there are cumbias we slow strut raise our arms hippy
sexy cockerels for the music they play boleros
for pelvis languor
to pelvis flaring out of rum
and aguardiente out of musky
anise which is fire-water which is the name
of our flesh its hot
crawling impulses tomorrow
we will descend from the mountains we will go
to Villavicencio
suddenly it is dawn and Luis Fernando
turns my face kisses the oval-square of my jaw
that bone of mine
enchants him he whispers while I mourn
I do not want that I should go but the taxi takes me
from the Candelaria back to Bogota and
this October in this New York my student daughter
is watching me
she puts down her book she kneels
by my chair in her orange jeans
her crooked smile
is moonrise in the Candelaria
