Iberian Tour

The year in Spain, eating pork and
kissing dark-haired men, I had a big jaw. I took
the peninsula by his waist and held on
through the cities, learning the tongues
of the Mediterranean and taking trains
through olive fields. In Oporto I pressed up

against plain shower tiles and a man
with two earrings. The hostel keeper
made me Portuguese spaghetti, the beef blended
completely into red sauce. In the back streets
I mimicked directions, hooted out broken Castillian,
laughed through it with a cop,

Read whole poem at Cider Press Review

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s