Torn Stocking
They struggle with a violent grace,
the bawdy cries of a bandoneon,
the open gash of her torn stocking.
They both understand
that naked hopes come last,
first there is this ceremony
the ritual goading
white flesh and dark shadows
must be rubbed
with an urgent blood.
This bar is a plaza de toros,
a place for the lace mantilla
to be torn away,
a floor for broken nightingales
They are cheap wine
but they know how to pour,
crushed and tied as they are
to the pressing moment.
The gap in her stocking
is not large
but its wound is deep,
and sadly nothing,
nothing they have to offer
can ever fill it.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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