our Spain was long
country drives, castle tours,
house stays, late arrivals,
kid-friendly restaurants,
early nights, endless walks,
the occasional stop
for shopping, daily
visits to museums, universities,
and churches, churches, churches
(I had seen the agonized Christ
die a thousand times by the end of it).
we did not see dancing
nor did we hear flamenco
nor attend any bullfights.
on the wall
above our bed
we have framed
three postcards
bought at a market
in Barcelona: a watercolor bullfighter,
cape flared, brown as dust, flanked by two
watercolor flamenco dancers,
their moving skirts
rendered in splashes
of wine-red and pink, fading into
empty paper spaces
the color of bone.
