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An Andalusian Song
Below the wrought iron veranda,
a guitar translated the dark.
Orchids unrolled their purple tongues
to arbor the moon.
We had quarreled earlier,
now I lowered my head in your lap.
Someone was singing about the sea;
the way the sea cries for the kiss of the shore,
how the sand runs to be drowned.
A romantic idea of love, a sweet melody,
but we both understood
that make-up sex
was a much more compelling force
than poetry.
You went to lay upon on the bed.
Later, sangria washed salt from our lips.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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