I spend the day with men,
and in thought of one
who holds away and yields no ease.
After, at the beauty parlor
I cross into the close and perfumed order
where women are made, are made beautiful.
Manicurist Marta takes my hand
to beautify, to lead me
past a row of mirrored cells,
ladies come to repair rumpled plumage
and tell secrets of their longing,
flutter of peregrines in jewelled jesses.
Marta, small and brown as a wren,
worn velvet among bright ruffling silks,
her English small. She hums at her work,
working my fingertips, closing a cage of sound
while around us wing skirts of red,
lustering eyes, the sacrificial claws
of women made up for the prey of love.
Her voice is tremolo, dolce
a hushed quaver of Cuba
and the tender partings of Carib romance,
the Spanish words unuttered
in her throaty lyric.
Marta hums a bit, translates, hums:
Only hear me,
for the voice of love is quiet,
quiet as songs of the morning dove.
She coos her plea,
warbling the words under her breath,
halting to find their meaning:
Oh, love, give . . . clemency
I lament for you always
I cry for joy when you stay with me,
I weep with pain when you go far.
The world is without liberty,
without rest, without you.
Only hear me, my heart,
for my song is soft,
soft as your departing footstep.
A jewel glitters under a dark eye.
Our heads lean together over joined hands,
the prisoner whispering late,
late to her mother by the jailer's glass wall.