Summer 1991 • Vol. XIII No. 3 Poetry |

The Love of Someone

Behind him, saffron hills so passionateI nearly cry, knowing he was killed. I read his biography. It is like Embracing myself—the black hair on our chests Crackles, mixes, bristles. If I could Kiss him, I wonder if I'd taste the same As his mouth would on mine. He would press Against me, my back against the door, My shoulders tense as his, my legs Locked between his legs, pulling at his shirt As he unbuttons mine. I glance up: Across the room, I wait in a mirror. I'm Spanish, the hardcover open on my lap Makes me pensive. I touch my brown handTo my face, and imagine that it's always him.

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