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Torn Stocking Tango
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.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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