Specially caught shells and pearls,
still lace is woven with worn fingers.
The anointed ten, working together,
crochet a web of intricate design.
Shells on the sandy shelf satisfy,
but doilies and tablecloths linger.
For long in darkness and flickering,
scented candles and burgundy wine.
Pearls of buttons and bows preen,
but a veil of mantilla lace whispers.
The free flow of digits and knuckles -
gentle, well-versed - her palm’s a vine.
Round and round, her wrists writhe,
breath’s aligned within the scriptures.
They struggle with a violent grace,
the bawdy cries of a bandoneon,
the open gash of her torn stocking.
They both understand
that naked desires 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 dance 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
seems to reflect their deeper wounds,
holes where hope died,
and nothing they seek now,
can ever fill them.
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 dance 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.
++ The Gathered Women, a short poem++
A Magnificence captures
Us
Unexpectedly
We run off
To hunt our mantillas
From long ago youth
To address
And dress our heads
In all felt humility
—————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 2/21/22
**a mantilla is a lace veil
Catholic women wore to church
before the 1990’s
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.
Limerick crochetés: Once our Señorita from Sevilla – XV
Once our Señorita from Sevilla
Came to Paris on a flotilla
She stepped out on high deck
Slipped and twisted her neck
Guess what happened to her mantilla
She stood under five metres flood pour
Couldn’t help but gulp Seine while she swore
Dreamed of Paris fiesta
During noon freeze siesta
But the wine tasted nothing like Dior
So to set sail called her Armada
Up Thames to sip with Liz II limonada
Head hit by Tower Bridge
Due to thawed Arctic fridge
Flamencoes with Raleigh in Andromeda
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2018
Limerick croises : Once our ‘Rita jumped into Sea Anne-Anne – 14
Once our ‘Rita jumped into Sea Anne-Anne
Sirens howled « panic stations » refrain
One Valhalla Rani
Offered her much money
For a shot sans mantilla – in vain
Our ‘Rita – you bet – a stunning beauty
Not given to falling for flattery
Was all of prime six feet
Which she tucked under meat
For Sevillan beds stood (on) two feet plus three !
So they put her up that night till Morgan
Classified her as subterfuge weapon
NSA roped her in
To put one o’er Putin
Now Chinese wish her to test rat poison !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Limerick : Once a Senorita from Sevilla
Once a Senorita from Sevilla
Took to hiding looks under mantilla
Not unbeknown to her
Sullen senior Senor
Gazed but at her wide open Gran Via.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Her dark eyes, sultry and steamy
Flashed a sideward’s glance
From beneath the black lace of her Mantilla
He gave her a browse
A more appraising look altogether
Her eyes flashed up again
A lingering languid glance
Which spoke of her muliebrity
Not the putative girl
They were now the cynosure
Of each others eyes
No words were spoken
Everything was intuit
With amative study
And libidinous perusal
She his object of pulchritude
He her beloved inamorato
Then they had to separate
And the spell was broken
Until next Sundays reunion
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