ANGYE IN THE SALSA BAR Poem by Stefan Hertmans

We're gliding on a stream that flows
from Cádiz across the dream as far
as Puerto Rico, we come up
against the speed, the languid sleep
of algae, coral reefs and demons;

we meet each other there in knots
that unravel our bodies once again
in desire, a fraction of
a revolution, a glance that's cast;

the maravilla and the breaking,
everything, around midnight, the super-
fluity, the privileges
we gain by dancing,
a whirling round of people
in a Gran Hotel,

something like organs in the darkness
of her hips, a small abyss,
the wave that makes feverish and
frees itself - there before

the small round table
where her hair imbibes,
in perfumed Medellin,
as if that is what we were

in the shadow red of
wings sprouting from her back,
where she is all promise
and she bleeds.