Besame,

the crooner breathed from the vinyl record,
besame mucho; and a few more lines
in Spanish that I can’t remember, this song

that floated like a veil over the sound
of clinked highball glasses, musky
murmur from a living room packed

with couples in the days my parents
entertained— while I lay in bed
listening, and rain striped the window

behind the crocheted curtains. Getting up
to tiptoe to the bathroom, who did I see
pressed in the shadow of the potted plant,

against the lawyer’s breast? And that
plaint, that pleading: I know its color
now— the lilac shade of longing

that looks to slide into the arms
of evening, the way I want to feel
your lips linger, your tongue

shape itself to the ache of my mouth.
The way the syllable opens in mucho,
before trailing off into the night.

[LAG-signature date=”02 24 2012″ url=”http://morningporch.com/2012/02/159122382/”]