LA CAMA TIENE CANDELA, or THE BED IS ON FIRE1

Would you believe me if I told youshe loved me, she loved me evenwith on her breath. She said,I was her garden ofof Bayahibe Roses. She kissedmy forehead. A bell was ringing.A light flickered and in it, our arms:the same deep brown like wet earthcradling the Massacre River.Would you believe me if I told youshe slept beside me every nightsince gliding her finger acrossmy teeth to memorize my smile?The landscape cloaked in plumand restless but she’d say sleepingwith me was like swaying in tall grass,under the moon-sun, pelicans preeningnearby. She professed she loved metonight, tomorrow night, yesterday too,over and over the lap of jade waves.Come, she’d say, into this fieldof soft sea grass perfumed with charcoal,perfumed with rosemary, a rowof palms for shade. Believe a lovelike this is possible. That I couldfollow music in her voice besidea drumming in mine. That my sugartamed the salt of her words. To sleep,she begged, beside the only personshe ever loved. She said this with