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Drifting (Rachel Jackson-Lafayette, LA)


Lived in Spain for a year of my youth.
I met there a tall, dark Spaniard.
Met him in the east
But he swooned me down south
To the land of AndalucĂ­a.

Now this is a land where the sun shines long,
The raindrops dry before they fall.
The people go to sleep
In the heat of the day;
Their nights last into the morning.

As one passes under the arches to the alleys
That lead to plazas facing old cathedrals,
A strange breeze misdirects you
And turns you towards the sea,
Scarcely do you recall which way your home is.

I wandered many paths here, my Spaniard walking near,
Absorbed this land's strange wind with him beside me.
At times he claimed to know quite well
The road on which we wandered.
At times there was no road for him to know.

This Spaniard, much as I did, thrived on floating freely.
He moved about wherever the spirit called him.
He scarcely showed confusion,
More often nods quite certain
Even when he did not understand.

I sat with him beside the seas, where Mediterranean greets Atlantic.
We talked of further travels further south
I too nodded freely
Though in my neck complaining
A growing well of promises inert.

I glanced west to the Atlantic, unending span of liquid,
Knew I'd cross it before I crossed the other.
I quit nodding and grew silent
My Spaniard's head quite still now.
He had no home to draw him from his wandering.  

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