Something Bad to Say About Tortillas

Bernard Henrie

I

After Teatro Colon we ate tortillas
like madmen. The food seller
tired as the dented salsa bottle,
fallen sideways on a ledge
of the aluminum truck.   Stumbling
home, we begin an act of love
interrupted by a quarrel
and bitter cough.

II

The silk June weather on the passers-by,
across windowpanes, too. We rent a car
and drive very fast, because I am Cuban.
We drive very fast because you are French.
We drive very fast. The thrown-open
car windows make mimeographed copies
of your hair. A sentimental favor penned
on your coat breaks loose to fly off.

III

The myna's cage is badly covered,
the vicuna drape slips diagonal
like a bandit mask. Only the clock
and radio identify the hold-up bird.
Wine from a paper cup, your robe
slips open, the forbidding shadows
cover in darkness the theft of love.

IV

Your smudged green eyelids half-closed
betray me; you are thinking of Roberto
from the ballroom, but my name
is not Roberto. I say I am exhausted,
you mock my accent saying:
ex-how-sted.

V

Clutching the tortillas coated in butter
shaded to oyster shell, it's dinner for one.
If I ever find your corazon , I will tear it out
with my exhausted teeth.