Brasileiras No. I

I. Embolada
Morning.
Stop light speaks
to the coffee stand.
Cars line toward dawn
and away from the pale cross.

Morning.
She slips on her camisole
pulls on her dark slacks
kisses his cheek
where he lays on the pillow
as horns echo on the sidewalk.

Morning.
The bodegas are opening.
Coins are tossing in
and the paper is tossed out.
The sky is a lake
where gulls sail.

Morning.
He sees her standing
in the mirror.
Hears her sing to herself
as she counts the
strokes of her brush.

Morning.
Traffic, orderly soldiers
waiting for the train
staying in their orderly ranks
even after the arms are raised.

Morning.
She crosses the room
Kisses his cheek one more time:
He pulls her to him.
Will not let her go.
Inhales her hair.

It's their traditional morning dance.
She pulls him from the bed:
No one will be late to work.
No one will work
on an empty stomach today.

II. Modinha
Morning light
filters onto the diner table.
Hands clasped:
left hand to left hand,
right hand to right,
as they offer thanks.

Thanks for the morning
Thanks for the smiling eyes
Thanks for hands to hold
Thanks for the warmth through the night
Thanks for life shared and witnessed together
Thanks for the mystery.

III. Conversa
They walk from the diner,
past the patient cars
(and the impatient cars).
They walk to the corner,
the border where morning meets the day.
The checkpoint where she travels north
and he goes west.
Their footsteps shadow each other.
They are counterpoint walking to the subway.
They fugue across the distance
and through the morning miles.

How her fingers curl under her chin
like a sea shell
as she dreams of morning kisses.

How he remembers her reflection
standing in the mirror.

How they are sent on their way
by morning's embrace.

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Written while listening to Heitor Villa-Lobos' Bachianas Brasileiras No. 1