Flush and Pale in Pamplona
We have never seen a dawn
that has not died within an hour.
But here's one now,
and, unsure if it has lied or not,
I check your eyes:
The sun's still struggling to get inside,
the small bright spots of fingertips
tugging lightly at your lids.
And I, from a family of cowards,
am hesitant to wake you,
though not so much as to stop my lowered hand
from moving upwards,
stilling only when you start to stir
and stretch; and then exhale
in a way that makes me flush,
then pale, as I, too,
drift back to sleep,
to wait until the midday sun
has come and gone
and left us one.
The moon is out
and so are we, sitting, nestled
in the busy market, free
from the deaths of bulls
and those who claim them.
A man, old, weighted
by a wedding ring,
sells flowers for the women
of men in love. I am,
he says, a king, and you agree,
with daffodils to please your smile.
And here, we have no fear,
just the whispers in our mouths and ears
in the way we drink each other's beer.
We pause, quiet, and know then