Madrid, 1983

The soft yellow light 
seemed bruised in some places 
like an overripe banana. 
The street melted, 
stones soft as clay. 

Already October 
but the heat was still palpable 
as an awkward dance partner 
with sweaty palms.  

Chris bribed the bartender 
for extra ice and filled the bathtub with clinking cubes. 
All night we had licked the salt  
from our skins.  

His father was an American spy in Berlin. 
No one knew which side of the wall 
he was facing when he was shot. 

There was a bearded man in the hotel lobby 
Chris said was CIA. 
We were ensnared 
In a John le Carré nightmare.   

Our curtains were always drawn. 
Yet still at night 
I wrapped my body in the thick red velour rug. 
The dust settling over my skin 
like a tired embrace.  

I can never love anyone 
Chris said again and again.  

The only time I went outside 
The Franco widows hissed 
behind their black lace veils 
rosary beads clinking like castanets.

PENNY JACKSON

Penny Jackson lives in Pound Ridge, New York. Her poems have been published in literary magazines here and abroad, and her story “L.A. Child” won a Pushcart Prize. She is the author of the novel Becoming the Butlers (Bantam Press) and L.A. Child and Other Stories (Untreed Reads). Her website is Pennybrandtjackson.com.