Dreaming Flamenco

Dreaming Flamenco

I hear my childhood rise On chords played on An old Garcia guitar. My father's stiff fingers Become limber on strings Strung on the dark neck. The guitar, made in Madrid, Curving into my father's form Was my mother's only rival.

As he played "Malaguena," I could feel my mother Thinking of dresses draping Red ruffled flashes Above hard heels, beating On bar room tables, Competing with the guitar, Sensually challenging each note With jealous rage.

That guitar, playing tones With a Spanish accent, Gave my childhood A chance to dream while My mother, and the dancers In red, raised their arms , Waiting for my father to Caress its golden body.

Bonnie Wiggins