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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4175 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Poems from a Spanish Journal Wayne McNeill Shush. I’m remembering a restaurant in the south of Spain. It was called La Cansella. I’d forgotten the address so I stopped a woman on the street and she took me there. It wasn’t far. Old workers and suits were mingling over wine. I was in the mood for fish and asked the waitress how big the portions were. She returned a moment later with a raw fish, draped over her wrist like a napkin. An hour later, happy with drink and a splendid meal, I walked back into the heat. This was Malaga City, early fall. I was looking back and forth as I was taught to do if I wanted to cross the street. A woman approached; the same woman who found La Cansella for me. Shush, I’m trying to remember. There was a rose-tattoo on her arm. Her top was a gaudy flower-print. Her skirt was white; her shoes open-toed; her smile a generous one. I could paint this afternoon with my eyes closed. |
