After Christmas and the New Year leave
Like empty trains I’ve missed somehow,
I turn on salsa music.
Even though I hate the beat of the drums.
Even though the false gaiety makes me feel sick.
Even though the images of people whirling round and round, arm in arm
Enhance the loneliness.
I pull my shawl closer and listen
Only to pretend that I’m somewhere else.
It reminds me of Portugal.
With a pastel-de-nata.
And a coffee.
And a view of the sea.
And the unforgiving morning breeze.
I listen to a guitar crooning out the melody of Recuerdos de la Alhambra,
All on top of a castle.
It reminds me of Turkey.
With the magic of Cappadocia’s fairy chimneys.
And the oppressive heat embracing me.
And the smell of spices in a bustling Bazaar.
A fiery-faced woman haggling over a rug.
The many colors flash before my eyes.
I listen to the melodious baalama bringing out folk melodies.
All on top of an adobe apartment.
I turn toward the radio, inserting the CD,
Listening to the effervescent strings.
It’s not conditioning.
It’s an association.