I can't recall the color of her eyes,
the way she laughed, or how she sighed,
but I recall that kiss,
the taste of liquor on her lips.
I held her hand, I held her drink,
she told me she was vegetarian,
but still eats chicken because she hates them.
She brought me to a gathering of friends.
They sang songs of being born again.
They were proud that she was one of them.
We went to the house
of a giant Cuban man with a giant Cuban mouth.
He told me many things
with an accent so thick the words got stuck between his teeth.
I understood nothing he said,
or to what I agreed when I nodded my head,
but sixteen young ballarinas laughed
at the stories he told for the hours they lasted.
She threw a party in a field behind her house.
There was a fire that we all sat about.
The lambent shadows from the flames
danced across her bare arms and legs.
She had lost half her clothes.
She spilled her drink all over my shirt.
Behind the flames, she kissed my friend;
they spent the night together in a tent.
I watched her as she left,
she did not turn her head.
"What the hell's been going on!?"
I exclaimed to the breaking dawn.
Copyright 2013 by Dan Bach.