field - Sin Azafrán

Sin Azafrán

“No saffron?” asks the man

Standing in front of the pantry,

Like a Pharaoh

Before a white-yellow field of grains,

In summer.

Knowing it won’t be enough.

The woman stirs the frypan,

In eights,

And with a wry smile,

Shakes her head to say, “No.”

Then —

All in one moment,

Besieged,

Like that field of grain being pushed

Back against the wind,

She feels it overpower her,

Suddenly

She bites a shrimp in her mouth,

And with her nose red with tomato,

Grabs the man by the waist,

Mid-Waltz,

Locks lips,

The taste of the sea

In the sea of their kiss,

The scent of paella

Turmeric,

White wine, glistening,

Like,

The edge of the sea,

The universe,

Dancing,

On their

Finger

tips.

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