She sees statues on every corner
and sometimes her legs harden,
body frozen on cobblestone
where las viejas sell rosemary nosegays
and young men urinate after dark.
She keeps bits of home in her cheeks,
rationing off the taste of tofu
so she can last through the winter.
She craves real lettuce,
food with earth still attached.
Mountains hold her in sometimes
when buildings are too tall,
grass so impossible,
shadows so forbidding.
Today there are no clouds.
They have traveled elsewhere,
carrying some part of her along.
We’re alike, she knows,
The clouds and I.
staying long enough to threaten tears,
moving fast enough to catch the sun.
What’s Left Behind
There are no waves here.
Other things flood her:
hisses of los borrachos,
kisses on both cheeks.
For months afterward,
she’ll structure her sentences
to the rhythm of stiletto heels,
flamenco wails,wave massage on foreign soil.