Duende

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                                                                                                        First published by Slipstream Magazine

Her feet floated in zapateado as she spun,

each tap a stab etched into our bones.

She clapped, erect, as he strummed a guitar,

their voices echoed and merged in melody 

as her shadow swayed on the cave wall,

each move a brushstroke of swirling sorrow

or slashing anguish or pulsating pride, 

an emulsion of ecstasy drenched in darkness.

Flushed and buzzed, we watched — 

worn-out tourists, an old malagueño 

nursing a cigar, thirty-something

bachelors sipping beers, the surly gitana 

serving sangria — all rooted in place 

like corkscrews bored into rock

as sound pulsed through our veins.

Beat boiled my blood as I fought an urge 

to burst into dance, a cava bottle 

tightly corked on the verge of rupture. 

This was life, raw and radiant and pungent,

a spread of sour morsels sweetened with sherry.

Scent of sweat mingled with smoke 

flowed through a crucible of chords 

ravenous for resonance. Restless, 

we tapped fingers on wooden tables

as she spiraled, shaping ache into art.

As climax collapsed to a close, 

we stood stunned 

at the edge of a vanishing vortex.