To be adventurous is the key:
Don’t let them know you’ve never seen this menu.
Stumbling syllables of Spanish
So young, so naïve:
A stranger to tapas.

Who wants to be the main dish?
Convention, what society dictates.
We are a product of the capitalist system
Built on property and inheritance,
Trapped in monogamy.

But I know power when I see it
And I have none. You have all.
Or so I think.
Or so you think.
Willingly used.
Or so I convinced myself.

Feminist? Ha.
Another line.
“You can see the stars here.”
And yet like a cat to cream
I lap it up.

I know what’s good for me
And I don’t like it.
Doomed to choose you.
A masochistic mindset
With no bearing in reality.
Bambi slipping on ice towards you.
My downfall. My Achilles heel.
My beautiful Machiavellian fox.

Red, she was dressed in red
Skirts swirling with her hips
Click, click her fingers snap
Her pearly whites grip
The stalk of a freshly cut rose
Red as blood, as stark as fire.
Olives, green, pure and oily
Clench like teeth to a wire
With spicy sausage and clams
Orange and pink in a pan
Tapas, little bits of this,
gorgeous bits of that.
Spanish lullaby from a talented hand
plays romantic flamenco in a band
held tight in his grip, the skin so lovely
the eyes so brown, the look of love so now.