Poetry by Megan Gray
~For Ana Mari
Arched. Vertebrae loose
and fallen over like the stream
escaped at La Cueva de Covadonga.
Until my bota back spills wine,
La Catedral ceilings will burst my neck.
My nurturing chest soaked
in tortilla steam, writhed away
from my husband’s chalice hand gulping
my mouth. I can hear my own
noonday bells chant alone.
Toro horns
cemented in chilled stone slabs.
Like humming water. Like red carnations
The stained-glass soaked skin
is my temple mirage. The Cristo
kisses me in the madrugada
and shuts my voice
like puerta doors.
My sermon speech, a breath
of candles, like illuminating shadows
tithed its years under my Catedral-curved
body. My silver will tarnish
beneath particles of rock.
