You like the haunted ones, don't you?
You like Maricela at midnight
With her black mantilla
And a red rose.
No Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm for you--
You like ravens, not robins;
Dropping your sewing and rushing outside
Whenever the storm flags go up.
She speaks only Spanish
And you speak only English
But you both eat meat always and only on Fridays
And laze through each torpid Sunday morning after everyone has gone,
From her tongue to yours,
Lighting each other like yellow candles
In the unsanctified hour
That hurries past like a prayer card in a
Sudden and unexpected wind.