Two guitarists jamming
after dinner in the living room
but not quite together at first,
more duel than duet, Andrés
laying down a line that conjures
a flamenco dancer as Larry
puts her in a black lace gown,
but her step is heavy & halting
& the lace keeps tearing
at the seams. Laverne & I sit
sipping wine as Andrés & Larry
circle each other like bull
& matador, & then something
clicks like a castanet & falls into
place & Laverne leans forward
& says Get it—& they get it,
get it & run with it & take us
with them to a dusty taberna
in Barcelona, the Rioja flowing
& the smell of paella perfuming
the night air as the dancer takes
the stage at last, her back ramrod
straight & her head flung back
& her feet flying faster & faster.
The lace is moist at her neckline
& her eyes are closed as if she’s
dancing for no one but herself,
nothing between her & the music
& the night, & we are her, dancing
& dancing & dancing in swirling
black lace, our eyes shut tight,
nothing between us & the music,
the music & the night.