LXI
A Woman Cried Olé
In a country that smelled of woman’s hands
I knew, in a ring of trees all populated
With wide leaves as soft on the eyes as rain,
A woman who cried “¡Olé!” because she had no manners.
Her skin was pale and warm. A brunette enchantress she, she
Danced drunkenly as in a wealthy living room.
She had it going on, and she walked around like a cowboy;
Her hips were filled with tequila and her eyes with confidences.
If you go Madame, to a true country of gloire
’Neath the docks on the Seine, or by the green Loire
Doorbells will ding in the stately manoirs.
Lady, your fire leans over behind the woods’ various shadows
Hammering sonnets into the hearts of poets
That you draw through them, into the bottoms of your nights.