The room’s din startles
when he starts playing the guitar.
He was there all along.

The tables grow quiet,
faces
turn like sunflowers.

The notes follow each other,
chasing silences, unhurried.
On the table, a lace runner.

Through the notes’ beaded curtain,
she enters.
The first stomp’s loading gun.

A second. A third.
The death in the crowd
grows a pair of eyes.

Against the wall, faces up,
the men start singing.
Black haloed angels.

Like a heart, the stomping
grows faster, mincing whatever
silence is left, whatever death,

and the guitar and the voices
and the palmas and the taconeo
occupy every note,

every second. Death
runs out of seconds,
notes, of oxygen.

Then, in the middle of
her red lipped dress, her voice
cracks.

Smell of broken bread.

______

New Contrast , June 2025