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Blackberrying
There was this one, a matadora, one for whom my trap shuts sharp. Surely, even now, she is blackberrying trying to prove me wrong. She says, "Oh, I am only a trickling of looking good." All this while her mouth is stained. And she loves it. She moves with more caring. My corazon said put a lid on it for God’s sakes, put a lid on it. But she doesn’t and I die of gratitude. She can be anyone. In fact, she prefers me moving. Once, she was at a funeral. I overheard her arguing politely with a lover. He had brought food to another woman. This was her appetite—he was saying—these were her roses of surprise. My matadora said, “This is not the time.” But, she watched the woman eat and it was a more tender sight. I think he is still standing by those graves. |
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