From the Caribe

Radiant in Cuba, the one-
two-three step of salsa
on the rooftops of Havana.
Drink of sugarcane under palms
on beaches where you don't
have to dodge sharp stones
or shiver at each cold step,
where Chango, lightning god,
sends sparks to make the hips move
round and back and forth and back
to the music of cigar smoke
and the voodoo lady of the sea,
made pure with tobacco and rum.

Captivating in Galway
against a grey winter of cloud,
you have an indoor smile.
"Here", you say, "I get fat"

Wolf Jazz

I learned to play the saxophone
because of you.
The notes you made entered deep,
undulating slowly through me,
scraping nerve endings
curling inside my head.
Released, they waited for response.

My voice was inadequate.
A howl would grow
low in my belly,
gain momentum but
burst forth into a squeak
across forests and mountains
into your lair.
That was not enough
to raise the hairs on your back.

I have my voice now.
All that is in me flows in answer.
Stretch those scrawny legs,
widen yellow slits of eyes,
and lift your head to imitate
the wind on a lonely night.
And later to imagine sleep,
my head on your side
our smells mixed, breath in rhythm,
dreams of running together,
wild notes back and forth.

^

Biography

Sandra Bunting, originally from Canada, is a writer based in Galway. She is currently completing a Masters in Writing at National University of Ireland Galway.