Manuela Roma, tell me if you will
what words you poured with passion through my lips.
There we were, and here, the blonde Sanchez hired
drove us to your Colonia Prado Churubusco house.
O you’re . . . ! No, not me . . .
Then come inside, tell me who you are.
Two years and the paramilitary were there, and you
on the plane to Prague.
Our friend said he hugged you once and knew
why I loved you.
But love’s always long in coming . . .
It is the love of the world you taught me,
I never learned but I listened and saw what I could
remember of father, mother . . . history, that curse,
and heard how they go in between the ribs to hang
your body upside down until you talk,
then only if they believe you do they let you down.
It is the story of Nora the glamorous Saninista
seducing the general, excusing herself to doll up
and emerge more beautiful than the blade she conceals
pues, Manuela, that is the story you told me I never forget
and there you were, alive, just as your words had said.
The blonde told Sanchez his time was up unless
he paid her now for more.
She drove her car very well, that’s how he paid her.
The rooms in the Londres were even smaller
though the price of a night there was higher.
(21, 30 April 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander