La Placita - San Juan dreams 1

My Spanish is lacking
on a good day,
but I’m fluent
in the way
moist skin
presses against
smiling hands,
and La Placita
speaks
my native tongue.

We spilled
out of the tiny club
with bass so
hard I can still
feel my chest
rattle,
covered in sweat
and looking
for a way to
translate
need
in the
crowd.

I couldn’t catch
any words
from the street music
save the refrains
yelled out by
a thousand,
thousand people
grinding between
a salsa 4/4 count,
but I could feel the
conversation
in hips swings,
dark hair
swishing
and darker eyes
making promises
based on
the madness
of the night
and the
Bacardi
on full lips.

The ice in my drink melted
faster than I could push to
an outdoor
bar and order,
because the heat here

the
heat
here

after dark

the heat
is slower,
deeper,
it undulates in
endless

witchy

ways.


I capitulated
to it,
and dissolved
into nothing
but desire.

I ran the last
remnants of the ice
along the nape of my neck
and fell into
prosody’s rhythm,

joining
the throngs
of people
seeking

to speak

without words.