The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Sandra Staas
LAST OF THE TOURISTS
I became a brand-new myth midst fried garlic, sweat,
and pointed steeples, where burros stumble forward
towards the bullring, bird droppings and blood.
I became a great legend, a throbbing guitar,
fighting on borders where laughter becomes perfume,
bathing the night sky, drenching fronds of pink.
I became an olive tree merging with the land,
toes buried in dust where nobody notices
sunburned skin, strange clothes, glowing in the shade.
I became an echo as voices screamed and screeched,
as dark red blood clots silent wounds swirling deeply
in sherry glasses, seeping into wood.
And as musky fragrances of oranges, seeds
and incense mellow, wax melts into strips spilling
on to cold hard stone caressing my feet.
As the sea flows far away, flowers close petals,
pealing of church bells and childrenís loud laughter
linger longingly in the afternoon.
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