for Tanya
We gather for a hilltop feast,
sopa frijoles con arroz,
and stay to watch the sun drip down
a lilac liquor on black hills.
Candles twist in the talapa
and the music starts to skirl:
the tabla's thrum, a sitar's whine
hush the whispers, and we watch.
The doors flash wide. The queen appears,
we inhale as the goddess nears:
deep eyes, her gown of glittered red,
hard gems in fripperies of gauze.
Her tango opens, fast at first
as laughter, youth, or evening;
then slows its heartbeat to a stir
like embers in the dust of fire.
By turns brazen or demure
torn by Eros into curves,
her hot steps kindle each in turn,
in circled gauntlet of our gaze.
Which of us she offers to
will take the burden of her flame?
Her circles lengthen, giving each
the full attention of her art.
The student with his sad guitar
merits the favor for tonight.
He holds a shawl to cover her
and leads our trembling queen away.