Maria, diosa del sol
Carlos squeezed the orange softly
Noticing that one end was green.
‘Why would someone buy fruit that’s not ready?’
Wanting to eat the orange now more than before
Just because he couldn’t.
He saw that she had uncorked the wine,
An Ampurdán-Costa Brava,
To let it breathe,
But that was also not yet ready.
‘All this waiting…’
He paced and scratched and wondered
Why he came back.
To this place where nothing seemed to suit him.
The fruit too green the wine too dry
The absence of warmth in the marble counters
And stiff-sheeted bed.
Why this woman
In whom he could find a thousand faults
Like the cracked earth of the desert.
You couldn’t see it without getting close,
But what he loved was the fire in her.
A burn that defied decency and politeness.
Evident even in her hair
There was a sense of something
He heard the door click upstairs
And beads of sweat pooled in his armpits.
Soft pads of footsteps
And the brushing together of her thighs
Were the drums beating between his ears,
And the feeling that something was going to happen
Ripened the orange still in his hand.