|Valerie Martt Wallace
The mouth opens its arms; the arms cry to be welcomed.
This is the way we speak. Night knows whatís done
the next morning when light takes over the room
and cartwheels down our shoulders, when the smell of coffee
makes you sway with pleasure. No despegar los labios.
Thatís what Iím telling you. Coffee smooth as a tongue;
Tito Puente jacking it up over the starlit dome of Club Habana.
Each of us, at some point, the nightís desire. Stir and stir
till the spoon becomes your hand, till your hand becomes
what you lean over to tell me. What I want to hear.