Alejandro sings in his sleep.
He comes to my browns, my best reds,
my store of references;
he loves my young eyes full time he says
and for all his family.
His daughter, Alejandra, calls out her needs:
my ears at the end of her voice
nearly fill with wax,
but the words slide beneath the barricades,
each one an insinuation.
Alejandro’s family is large, wise and wild.
They invite me into their home
where I entertain with slight-of-hand,
a conjuring trick or two,
magic enough to insure my stay.
At twilight, every day,
one from the group vanishes
while none of the remaining notice,
but each time their attention on the trick
and the way I move my hands, sharpens.
After weeks of this – good food on the table
wine and the family appearing and disappearing
like ghosts on a string, like variegated angels –
Alejandra remains missing,
caught beyond my magic in the mists.
