Rage darkened Miguel’s green eyes; his blood was boiling; bible in one hand, sword in the other, breathing heavily, determined not to let his Spanish Armada be sunk the second time.
Ha! And by whom? By a Frenchman?!
Wasn’t Jacques supposed to spend his entire life just alluring the other sex?
Oh, how wrong all of us were to judge Jacques like that!
And how dearly we were to pay for that facile, juvenile judgement of ours.
Steely blue eyes, coat of arms engraved on his shield, Jacques was relentlessly fighting to conquer only one heart; the heart of the woman who Miguel loved.
Both of them reduced me to a war trophy.
In the cozy, beautifully tiled hacienda, darkness broke loose.
From the manuscript Glass Lovers
Miguel was there with me almost every day caressing my perfumed body, drinking every nuance of my spoken words, breathing in my abysmal silences.
I was his Mexico. He was my version of a mirific conquistador: magnificent green eyes, blood pulsating in his temples, bible in one hand, roses in the other.
We both knew that something much stronger than sexual attraction, or even love was growing between us. Yet we could not put a name on it.
Miguel had a proclivity for self-sacrifice. He was the first to ask for redemption, before he even knew for which sin he was supposed to be forgiven.
Alas, I should have asked too.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
Memories of a humid summer, dripping with love, when you finished your book.
In the night red wax is trickling over a torn page that says, “for you- whose love fills my life with joy and makes all things possible.”
My arms ache trying to pull you back from a memory abyss filled with pain.
Can I still make all things possible?
The walls stay silent.
my taffeta dress falling
on the floor
staining the carpet
with the violets of beach pea.
your kisses morphing
on my neck
into the loneliness
of sand castles lost to sea.
the shining mirror now reflecting
a golden painting of a nude
Márquez is finishing in silence
his hundred years filled with solitude.
reference to Gabriel García Márquez’s work One Hundred Years of Solitude
Your art of writing poems in my soul
The fury of your talents now unleashed
The legendary movements of my hands
Crafting love words into seraphic sands.
I slightly modified version of this poem was published in The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch
oh, don’t cast the stone
my dear reader
before you understand
what kind of love is hidden
into the ripping of the shirt
when ancient rituals
the meeting of the minds.
don’t cast the stone
my dear reader
until you know thyself
into the wisdom of all ages
coming to know
mermaids from prophets
and courtesans from
and even then
don’t cast the stone
for you are not
daily prompt: inheritance
Write me love letters
Don Quixote is still standing in Madrid
Fighting windmills perpetually caught
In his imagination’s grid.
Like Dante using iambic pentameters
Write me the pain ripping your heart
Write me an epic like Homer
Armor my soul with magic art.
And build for me a citadel of love
Its walls the crystal of my tears
Its altar’s candles luminating
The path for lovers of all years.
Please, trap me in the rhythms of the Flamenco
Whose sounds invade the nights of Southern Spain
To breathe the notes of the guitars which play,
And, fill the lustrous eyes with burning pain.
And trap me in the Florence of my dreams
To walk with Leonardo in its streets,
To verse in Greek, and cry with the Madonna
When the last word of Christ forever speaks.
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